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SONGS OF 
THE SOIL 




B 



FRANK L':STANTON 








NE\<^ YOR.K 
D.APPLETON&CO. 

1924 







ec)i 



Copyright, 1894, 
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 




DEC i 7 1S82 



COPY 



' U r Ir C < re- 



printed in the United States of America. 



REPIKCEMEHT COPY 



TO MY FRIEND, 
JOSEPH VAN HOLT NASH, 

OF GEORGIA. 

True-souled, and great through kindliest deeds, 

Honor's ideal knight ; 
With that sublimest love that leads 

A brother to the light. 



p^' 



PREFACE 



In some important respects the poetry of Mr. 
Stanton presents a phenomenon that is well worth 
the attention of those who are interested in the 
development of that branch of American literature 
that finds voice in the South. In the first place, 
the writings of no American poet have achieved 
such wide popularity, if we are to measure popu- 
larity by the daily and weekly newspapers of the 
country, or by the interest which makes itself 
manifest in private correspondence, or by the ap- 
preciation which betrays itself in the irresistible 
desire of composers, professionals and amateurs, to 
give a musical setting to the poems. These mani- 
festations are not by any means confined to this 
country. In England the literary weeklies have 
seized upon the poems as something new and 
striking. The result of this is that the phenome- 



Vi PREFACE. 

nal popularity of Mr. Stanton's verses in this 
country finds a hearty echo in Great Britain. 

A prominent English author, writing to Mr. 
Stanton, says : ^^ Your poems are gaining reputa- 
tion for you in England. The note of hope that 
you are singing is one that has been unheard for 
years.*' This remark, casually made, possesses 
unusual significance. We know a great deal more 
than our fathers knew. Profound sophistication 
is the order of the day. We see it rankly devel- 
oped in the stories that women are writing. Evo- 
lution has become revolution. Sham culture, 
brought to book (to speak literally), confesses that 
the beastliness of the primal ape remains pretty 
near the surface of things. The poets flutter 
somewhat higher. That which is insipid vulgarity 
in prose blossoms into pessimism in verse. In the 
magazines and in the newspapers it is the same. 
Knowing too much, we know nothing! There is 
no future any more. Everything is hopeless 
gloom. That which we have not already lost we 
shall presently lose, and there is no remedy. In 
fact, no remedy is necessary. There is nothing to 



PREFACE. vii 

be done but to eat cold muffins and drink tea, and 
make ourselves as comfortable as possible under 
the circumstances. 

It is in the midst of these conditions that the 
voice of a singer away down South, in the provin- 
cial regions, makes itself heard. It is a bold voice, 
too, for it persists in singing night and day, neither 
seeking nor avoiding an audience. If the world 
listens, well and good : if not, pleasant dreams 
to all for the sake of old times ! But the world 
listens. The newspapers pick up the songs and 
send them far and wide, till the voice of the singer 
is carried over the continent and into the isles 
of the sea. People say, " Who is this man that 
goes on singing day after day as if there had 
never been a singer in the world before him ? *' 
They find that he has the root of the matter in 
him, and so they listen gladly. 

It will be interesting to note what the critics — 
the apostles of culture — will say of Mr. Stanton's 
verses. We shall hear, no doubt, that they lack 
finish, that too little attention has been paid to 
the demands of literary art. It is so easy to talk 



viii PREFACE. 

about literary art, and so hard to know what it is! 
It is such a dreadful thing in and of itself that 
those who venture into print for the first time are 
in quite a stew until somebody they have never 
heard of before discovers for them whether they 
understand anything about literary art. And they 
are old and gray in the business before they dis- 
cover for themselves that the only true literary 
art is the atmosphere of individuality which each 
mind with a message creates for itself. 

As for Mr. Stanton's poems, they have all been 
struck off in the heat and hurry of newspaper 
work, not as things apart, but as a matter of 
course. As one of the writers on the Atlanta 
Constitution, he has a department which he calls 
"Just from Georgia." He has chosen to preface 
this department with at least one original piece of 
verse every morning. But frequently he writes 
four and five poems a day, not because he is ex- 
pected to write them, but because they are waiting 
to be written. The marvel of this fluency is that 
the result should be so significant, that the earn- 
estness and simplicity of the note he strikes should 



PREFACE, ix 

be so manifest. His readers have no need to be 
told that whether he blithely sings of youth and 
love or, more seriously, of life and hope, he is not 
playing with his theme. 

In a period that fairly reeks with the results of 
a sham culture that is profoundly ignorant of the 
verities of life, and a sham philosophy that wor- 
ships mere theories, it surely is something to find a 
singer breathing unceremoniously into Pan's pipes 
and waking again the woodland echoes with 
snatches of song that ring true to the ear, because 
they come straight from the heart. We were told 
a while ago by one of the sophisticated brethren 
that the poet of the future would come to us 
singing of science. The dreaded possibility still 
lies before us. Meanwhile, here is one with the 
dew of morning in his hair, who looks on life and 
the promise thereof and finds the prospect joyous. 
Whereupon, he lifts up his voice and speaks to the 
heart : and lo ! here is Love, with nimble feet and 
sparkling eyes; and here is Hope, fresh risen from 
his sleep ; and here is Life made beautiful again. 

Joel Chandler Harris. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

A song of summer-time ....... i 

Night in the South 4 

Lynched , . . . 7 

The call of the reapers 8 

What bothers him Ii 

Me an' Mary 12 

An old battlefield 17 

A little hand 18 

The picnic at Selina 20 

For you 24 

Dreaming of home 25 

Slain 28 

Old times in Georgy 29 

The old brigade 31 

Not melancholy days 33 

Fallen asleep 35 

Fall time 37 

The thought of you 38 

When Jim was dead 39 

A song for her 41 

Wearyin* for you -43 

A song in good time 46 



xii CONTENTS. 

YKGB. 

A song of waiting 47 

The old pine box 49 

The first kiss 52 

'Possum an' taters 54 

A bouquet 58 

The lightning age ........ 59 

At Andersonville 62 

A lazy chap , . . 64 

Faithful 68 

** Green fields and running brooks " 69 

A portrait in a grave 71 

Through the wheat 72 

The truant 74 

A little bit of a boy 75 

Jenny and I 77 

The family record 79 

Singing of you 80 

Little Elaine 82 

Out of the race 84 

The parting of poor Jack 85 

A day off 88 

After 90 

'Twas far away 91 

Watermelon song 93 

The duel 96 

For Sally 98 

One sad day 100 

The old postmaster loi 

A fair politician 103 

A country philosopher 104 

The ships of Melton 106 



CONTENTS, xiii 

PAGE 

They've hung Bill Jones io8 

The top floor 109 

Don't you ? 112 

My lady 114 

The rattlesnake 116 

A little way 117 

Didn't think of losin* him 118 

The home keeper 120 

June dreams 121 

A song of life 123 

A sharp politician 125 

Blackberries 127 

Still in the ring . 130 

A day in the woods 132 

Jim Tuck's old woman 133 

The shower 136 

April 137 

Uncle Jim 139 

A little boy for sale 140 

A fisherman in town 142 

The old school exhibitions 144 

In absence 146 

In the fields 148 

Gittin' home 150 

Chattahoochee 151 

The love feast at Waycross 154 

A June pastoral 157 

The mocking bird 158 

Good-by 160 

A Georgia barbecue 163 

The last inn 164 



xiv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Easter bonnet . . i66 

November nights i68 

A tragedy 169 

Some thoughts of Lee 170 

The chap in the branch 172 

The songs of the wind 174 

The rainbow 176 

The word he didn^t say 177 

The whip-poor-will 179 

Hunt him down 180 

Close to springtime 182 

A song of mysteries 183 

Mary, after Calvary 185 

Weary the waiting 187 

Jones's cotton planter 189 

Happy Ian' 192 

Let Miss Lindy pass 194 

A cheat ! 196 

To a little fellow 197 

A song . 199 

My gifts 200 

A little book 20i 

Saint Michael's bells 203 

Song 205 

Maid o' the Mist . 206 

A song of ships 208 

Her beautiful hands 210 

To the New Year 212 

The Master's coming 214 

A song of Liberty 216 



SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



A SONG OF SUMMER-TIME. 

O summer-time in Georgy — I love to sing your 

praise ! 
Though I've got no voice fer singin\ it's a tune I 

love to raise 
When the birds is pantin', chantin', an' jest rantin' 

roun' the rills, 

With the juice o' ripe blackberries jest a-drippin* 
from their bills ! 

O summer-time in Georgy, when through leaves o' 

green an' brown 

The dew that smells o' violets comes twinklin', 

tinklin' down 

(i) 



2 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

On the wild an' wavin' grass that feels the sun- 
beam as it slips, 

An' the dusty lily puckers up its white an' thirsty 
lips ! 

O summer-time in Georgy, with the glory in the 

dells, 
Where the rich an' rainy incense from the fresh- 

'nin' shower swells. 
An' crost the bars to twinklin' stars float twilight's 

fare-you-wells 
In the lowin' o' the cattle an' the tinklin' o' the 

bells ! 

O summer-time in Georgy, when nigh the listenin' 
vine, 

Where the purple mornin'-glory an' the honey- 
suckle twine. 

The whip-poor-wills was singin' their notes o' love 
an' bliss, 

An' to my lips was clingin' the lips I loved to 
kiss ! 



A SONG OF SUMMER-TIME, 3 

Stay, like a dream o' beauty, while deares' dreams 

depart, 
An' rain your honey-sweetness in showers roun' 

my heart ! 
Pshaw ! I'm gittin' so soft-hearted, my eyes kin' 

hardly see : 
O summer-time in Georgy ! You're the best o' 

times to me ! 



NIGHT IN THE SOUTH. 

Here in the deep, June dark, 

Laden with odors of the rose excessive, 
Where not a star ray strikes the oaks to mark 

Their glooms impressive, 

I tilt my rustic chair — 

The smoke from my Havana upward wreathing, 
And o*er the rolling of the world I hear 

The great Night breathing ! 

The night that has no art 

To hide her grief ; with dim-draped arms ex- 
tended, 
She waits to welcome to her widowed heart 

The moonrise splendid. 

And yet — so still is all 

That if a bird's nest slipped its airy tether 

(4) 



NIGHT IN THE SOUTH 5 

There would be sound and feeling in the fall 
Of one light feather ! 

The rills that brawled all day, 

Now with the tumbled pebbles make no 
wrangle ; 
The wind seems weary and has lost its way 

In vines a-tangle. 

In vines where odorous swings 

The honeysuckle, o'er the senses stealing ; 
Where humming-birds have brushed with beau- 
teous wings 

The wild grapes reeling ! 

Night ! and the South ! and June ! 

Silence — and yet, the sound of many voices ! 
And now, dashed down the darkness, tune on tune, 

And melody rejoices ! 

Clear through the awakened night 

The music rushes — all the joy-bells ringing; 

And every leaf is trembling with delight 
Born of that singing ! 



6 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

It is as if a word 

Had flashed from God — aweary of the quiet ; 
The soul of Music in a mocking-bird 

In maddest riot ! 

Night ! and the South ! and June ! 

The wind awakes ; the river sings its story ; 
Up from the black hills climbs the brimming moon 

In full-blown glory ! 

The distant hills grow bright : 

The oaks stand clear ; the loneliest nook un- 
covers ; 
The keen vines listen for the footsteps light 

Of whispering lovers ! 

A flash on fields and streams, 

And one bird's song tumultuous and tender ; 
And then — the languor of melodious dreams, 

And earth all splendor ! 



LYNCHED. 

The tramp of horse adown a sullen glen ; 
Dark forms of stern, unmerciful masked men : 

A clash of arms, a cloven prison door, 

And a man's cry for mercy ! . . . Then high o'er 

The barren fields, dim outlined in the storm, 
The swaying of a lifeless human form. 

And close beside, in horror and affright, 
A widowed woman wailing to the night. 

(7) 



THE CALL OF THE REAPERS. 

I know that it is reaping-time in all the fields of 

Lee ; 
I can hear the reapers singing o'er the meadows, 

calling me : 
" And wherefore come you not to-day to reap the 

golden grain ? " 
But I'll never see the fields of Lee, nor reap with 

them again. 

" And wherefore come you not to-day ? " they cry 

across the wheat ; 
"And wherefore come you not?'* the winds are 

chiming low and sweet ; 
And far and near sweet sounds I hear from over 

mount and main ; 
But I shall not see the fields of Lee, nor reap in 

them again. 

(8) 



THE CALL OF THE REAPERS, g 

" Oh, wherefore come you not ? The hand of 

Summer decks the sod ; 
The world is like a picture where the harvests 

smile to God ; 
There's yet a late white rose for you in valley and 

in plain.'* 
But I shall not see the fields of Lee, where blooms 

that rose, again. 

" Ah, wherefore come you not ? The doves have 

left their woodland nests, 
With the silver sunrise gleaming on their downy, 

tender breasts ; 
And they're calling to you soft : * Come home ! ' " 

But all their calls are vain ; 
For I shall not hear the birds sing in the fields of 

Lee again. 

Oh, comrades, cease your crying, as ye reap in 

fields of Lee ; 
Ye have there so many reapers there is never 

need of me ! 



lO SONGS OF THE SOIL, 

Oh, doves, leave not your nests, nor call in tender 

tones and vain, 
To him who hears, with falling tears, but can not 

come again. 

Reap on, ye men and maids of Lee ; for ye that 

sow must reap ; 
And I am reaping far away while ye your vigils 

keep ; 
But there is no song upon my lips, nor golden is 

the grain. 

And I shall not see the fields of Lee, nor reap 
with you again ! 



WHAT BOTHERS HIM. 

There ain't so much o' pleasure 
In fishin' South in May, 

Or any other blessed month — 
No matter what they say ! 

Because the river bank is green ; 

The grass is soft an* deep, 
An' where the shady willows lean 

A feller falls to sleep. 

An' jest when he begins to nod 
'Longside his empty cup, 

A fish comes jerkin' at his rod 
An* always wakes him up ! 

(XI) 



ME AN* MARY. 

There's a lot o* fun in livin* an* a lot o' joy in 
life 

When a feller's got a sweetheart — 'fore he's think- 
in' of a wife ; 

An* sayin' that remin's me that I lived on honey- 
comb 

When Mary did the milkin' an' I drove the cattle 
home. 

I was mighty clost to twenty, an' was kinder shy 
an' green, 

An' the writin' in the Bible put down Mary seven- 
teen ; 

I'd been thinkin' o' the city — bein' much inclined 
to roam, 

But somehow I liked the cattle, an' kept drivin' of 
'em home. 



ME AN' MARY. 13 

You see, the cattle knowed me — been a-drivin* of 

em* so ; 
An' Mary had to milk 'em at a certain time, you 

know ! 
An' when I'd think o' clerkin' an' leavin' o' the 

loam, 
I'd wonder an' I wonder who would drive the 

cattle home. 

But there warn't so much in farmin', or in drivin' 

cows to milk : 
It kept me down to cotton-jeans an' Mary fur 

from silk ; 
So I made my mind up certain^ an' I packed my 

trunk to start ; 
An' I kept a-sayin' careless : " It'll break nobody's 

heart." 

I remember it was springtime — 'bout the settin* o' 

the sun — 
When I broke the news to Mary like 'twas jest the 

biggest fun ! 



14 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 

But I noticed while she listened that the milkin* 

slowed — then stopped, 
An' she looked acrost the meadows, an' her eyes — 

they kinder dropped ! 



An* I said : " I'm sorry, Mary, but the time is 

come to go : 
I hate to leave the country, likin' all the cattle 

so!" 
Then her eyes looked up an' met me, an' I felt 

the lightnin' strike 
As the words come mighty tremblin' : " Is the 

cattle all you like ? " 

Somethin' hit me ! thought a minute, lookin' down 

into her eyes, 
Wich was like a dream o' heaven, an' jest took in 

all the skies ; 
An' I felt myself a-shakin' like I'd struck a day in 

fall; 
But I said it — drawin' clost to her: ^^ Noy Mary^ 

cows aint all! " 



ME AN' MARY. 15 

It was quicker'n / kin tell it, or than even the law 

allows, 
But the milk drowned out the daisies, an' the 

calves got with the cows ! 
An' my arms was all aroun' her, an' my heart 

jumped out my vest, 
An' my vote was fer the country, fer I liked the 

country best ! 



Warn't no milk on that plantation that evenin' — ^ 

not a drop ! 
The cows got in the gyarden an' jest eat up half 

the crop! 
But the food that / was feedin' on was sweet as 

honeycomb, 
From the red, sweet lips o' Mary, as I kissed her 

goin' home ! 

I lost sight o' the city life, whatever it might 

be: 
One acre in the country was enough, an' more^ fer 

me ! 



l6 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

An' I'm mixed up with the meadows, an* I never 

want to roam, 
Fer Mary does the milkin' an' I drive the cattle 

home! 



AN OLD BATTLEFIELD. 

The softest whisperings of the scented South, 
And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth. 

And where the thunders of the fight were born, 
The wind's sweet tenor in the tinkling corn. 

With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, 
And blue skies bending over love and home. 

But still the thought : Somewhere — upon the hills, 
Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills, 

Sad, wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat 
For the loved sound of unreturning feet; 

And when the oaks their leafy banners wave. 

Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave ! 

(17) 



A LITTLE HAND. 

Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
Somewhere in this sun-bright land ; 

But I thank the Lord for his blessings, 
And the clasp of a little hand. 

A little hand that softly stole 

Into my own that day, 
When I needed the touch that I loved so much 

To strengthen me on the way. 

Softer it seemed than the softest down 
On the breast of the gentlest dove ; 

But its timid press and its faint caress 
Were strong in the strength of love ! 

It seemed to say in a strange, sweet way : 
" I love you and understand " ; 

(i8) 



A LITTLE HAND, 

And calmed my fears as my hot, heart tears 
Fell over that little hand. 

Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
Somewhere in this sun-bright land ; 

But I thank the Lord for his blessings, 
And the clasp of a little hand. 



19 



THE PICNIC AT SELINA. 

That picnic at Selina — it covered lots o' groun' ; 

There was women, men, an' hosses from fifteen 
mile aroun', 

An' fiddles squeaked an' brogans creaked the mer- 
riest kind o' song, 

An' 'twas " Balance to your pardners ! " and 
*^ Swing ! " the whole day long. 

'Twas a powerful sight o* pleasure jest to see the 

fellers whirl 
Them lovely forms in calico, with all their hair in 

curl ! 
It was quite intoxicatin' ; you could hear the 

rafters ring. 

Till the old men couldn't stand it, an' cut the 

" pigeon wing " ! 

(20) 



THE PICNIC AT SELINA. 21 

The old-time " double-shuffle " made the dust fly 

from their heels, 
An* 'twas sich a jolly scuffle in the Old Virginny 

reels ; 
The young men jest a-sweatin', an' the rosy gals 

a-blowin' — 
But they didn't mind the weather while they kept 

the fiddle goin' ! 

" It's jolly ! " roared the rafters. '' It's painful ! '* 

groaned the floor : 
** It's dusty ! " said the women, but they only 

danced the more ; 
An' the young men called it ^^ stavin'," an' I reckon 

they was right, 
Fer that old-time Georgia ^* breakdown " made the 

stars dance with delight ! 

All day the fiddle's music was ringin' wild an^ 

sweet ; 
The nigger parson rolled it off an' kept time with 

his feet : 



22 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

All day, with jest a breathin' spell 'long *bout the 

time o' noon, 
The dancers kept in motion an' the fiddle kept in 

tune. 



An' then here come the dinner — table stretchin" 

*way 
Out yonder, till it dwindled to a leetle mist o* 

gray : 
There was punkins, there was pullets, all a-lookin* 

o* their best; 
An' 'possums, an' pot licker, till a feller couldn't 

rest ! 

An' everybody went fur 'em — jest made a dash 

f er all, 
Till them chickens o' the springtime wished they 

hadn't hatched till fall I 
An' the punkins kept agoin' as they come in 

reach o' me, 
An' I made them 'possums wonder how they ever 

climbed a tree! 



THE PICNIC A T SELINA. 



23 



But good things can't last furever; the honey 

leaves the comb ; 
An so, we had to be resigned to hitchin' up fer 

home ; 
An*, if I don't disremember, I was drivin' of a bay 
On a zigzag road, an' huggin' of a widder all the 

way ! 

That picnic at Selina ! it ain't to be fergot ! 

Fer a feller felt as happy 's if he owned a house 

an' lot ! 
An' thinkin' o' them women folks, all dressed up 

fit to kill, 
I kin feel my heart agoin' like a old rice beater 

still ! 

There'll be good times at Selina in the happy days 

to be. 
But never any times like that fer all the boys an' 

me; 
Fer the mem'ry o' that picnic — it'll live a hundered 

years. 
An' I'll feel my old feet shufflin' when I climb the 

golden stairs ! 



FOR YOU. 

For you, dear heart, the light — 
God's smile, where'er you be, 

And if he will — the night. 
Only the night for me ! 

For you Love's own dear land 
Of roses, fair and free ; 

And if you will — no hand 
To give a rose to me. 

For you Love's dearest bliss 
In all the years to be ; 

And if you will — no kiss 
Of any love for me. 

Thankful to know you blest, 

When God your brow adorns 
With the sweet roses of his rest, 

I thank him for the thorns ! 

(24) 



DREAMING OF HOME. 

I can't jest tell what's come to her, an' yet I think 

it's clear 
That somethin's goin' wrong o' late — to see her 

settin' there 
A-dreamin' in the doorway, with that look inta 

her eyes, 
As if they still was restin' on the fur-off fields an' 

skies. 

She's always dreamin', dreamin' o' the life we left 

behind — 
The cozy little cottage where the mornin'-glories 

twined ; 
The roses in the garden — the yellow sunflowers 

tall; 

The violets — but she herself the sweetest flower 

o' all ! 

(25) 



26 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

You see, she use' to set there in the mornin's — so 

content ; 
The sunflowers foUerin' the sun, no matter where 

he went ; 
The brown bees sippin' honey an' a-buzzin' roun* 

the place ; 
The roses climbin' up to her an' smilin* in her 

face ! 

An' now, she can't fergit it ; when I tell her : 

'' Little wife, 
There ain't no use in grievin' fer that simple 

country life," 
She twines her dear arms roun* my neck, an* 

smilin' sweet to see. 
She whispers : ^' We're so fur away from where we 

use' to be ! ** 



There ain't no use in chidin*, or in sayin* words o* 

cheer ; 
There's nothin' in this city life like she was use to 

there, 



DREAMING OF HOME. 



27 



Where preachin' come but once a month, an' street 

cars didn't run, 
An' folks they told the time o* day by lookin' at 

the sun. 

An' larks got up at peep o' day an' made the 

meadows ring ! 
I tell you, folks, when one's brought up to jest 

that sort o' thing. 
It's hard to git away from it — old feelin's bound 

to rise 
An' make a runnin' over in a woman's tender 

eyes ! 

So there she sets a-dreamin', till I git to dreamin', 

too ; 
An' when her head drops on my breast and sleep 

falls like the dew 
An' closes them bright eyes o' hers, once more we 

seem to be 
In the old home where we'll rest some day to- 
' gether — her an' me ! 



SLAIN. 

Swiftly the shot from my rifle sped 

To his heart, and he fell in the darkness — dead ! 

With never a struggle, never a sigh, 
I saw my enemy bleed and die. 

And now, I said, is my peace secure ; 

I shall fear his hand and his hate no more. 

The black night came with a stealthy pace 
And shed the shadows over his face, 

Hidden forever from mortal view : 
And only God and the darkness knew ! 

But what would I barter of good and fair 
To take the place of the dead man there, 

As I face the future — the life to be, 
With God and the darkness haunting me ! 



OLD TIMES IN GEORGY. 

Old times in Georgy — them's the times fer me ! 
No times now like them times, an' ain't agoin' to 

be! 
Long time 'fore the railroads an' steamboats 

blowin' free — 
How I like to dream o' them — good old times to 

me ! 

Old times in Georgy — them's the times that 

make 
My old eyes dance an' twinkle like sunshine on 

the lake ; 

An' sometimes, too, they kinder bring feelin's 'kin 

to pain, 

An' make my eyes run over like rivers full o'' 

rain ! 

(29) 



30 



SONGS OF THE SOIL, 



Old times in Georgy — can't fergit 'em quite — 
Suns that made the daytime — stars that come at 

night ; 
Oh ! but they was good times — country smilin' 

bright ! 
Everything was love then — everything was light. 

Old times in Georgy — hear my old heart beat 
When they come a-ringin' with their music sweet 1 
Dreamin' of 'em always, mountains, hills, an' dells, 
They're like a sweet song's echo — a fur-off chime 
o' bells ! 

Old times in Georgy — they was sweet to know — 
Old friends that loved us, friends that we loved so ! 
Seem to lost my way, now — ain't much left to 

see — 
Them dear old times in Georgy is all life's got fer 

me ! 



THE OLD BRIGADE. 

When Pearson sang *^ The Old Brigade," how all 

the boys kept time ! 
The muskets rattled once again, the cannon 

roared in rhyme ; 
With shoulder close to shoulder still, again the 

charge they made, 
With all the torn flags waving o'er the old 

Brigade ! 

When Pearson sang ** The Old Brigade," 'twas 
" Forward — march ! " and then — 

The shouting of the captains and the rallying of 
the men ! 

The storming of the ramparts, and the battle, 

blade to blade — 

Oh, the story and the glory of the old Brigade ! 

(30 



32 



SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



When Pearson sang *^ The Old Brigade/' the boys 

kept time with sighs, 
And something like a teary mist dimmed all their 

dreaming eyes ; 
For lo ! the fight is ended, the rust is on each 

blade, 
And the grass grows green forever o'er the old 

Brigade ! 



NOT MELANCHOLY DAYS. 

These ain't the ^'melancholy days," no matter 

what they say! 
There's more good fun in ail the ways than's been 

there many a day ! 
The crackin' of the teamster's whip — the shoutin' 

of a bov 
As the apples come a-tumblin' down — that's joy fer 

you — big joy ! 

These ain't the '* melancholy days " — there's lots o' 

fun in sight ; 
The cool and bracin' mornin's, an' the big oak fires 

at night ; 
The hounds upon the rabbit's trail — the wild doves 

on the wing — 
The maiden with the red lips, an' the lover with 

the ring ! 

(33) 



34 



SONGS OF THE SOIL, 



These ain't the ^'melancholy days" — not much! 

they're full o' life, 
An' you're thankful fer your sweetheart, an' you 

praise God fer your wife ! 
An' then, on general principles — in view of what 

he's givin' — 
You shout a hallelujah fer the privilege o' livin' ! 



FALLEN ASLEEP. 

Only a little dust — 

So small that a rose might hide it ; 
And I trust in God — or I try to trust, 

When I kneel in the dark beside it. 

I kneel in the dark and say : 

I only dream that I weep ; 
She would not leave me and go away — 

She has only fallen asleep. 

Fallen asleep, as oft 

She climbed to mv heart to rest, 
Her white arms twining my neck, as soft 

As down on a dove's sweet breast. 

Tenderly — unawares, 

Sleep came in the waning light 
And kissed her there on the twilight stairs 

That lead to the morning bright. 

(35) 



36 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

And that she will wake I know, 
And smile at a grief like this ; 

It could not be she would leave me so, 
With never a good-night kiss ! 

So I kneel in the dark and say : 

I only dream that I weep ; 
She would not leave me and go away — 

She has only fallen asleep. 



FALL TIME. 

Fall time in the country ! ain't it out o' sight ? 
Hick'ry nuts a-droppin' an* fires blazin* bright ! 
'Taters in the ashes, apples on the shelf — 
Pass aroun' the cider till you hardly know your- 
self ! 

Fall time in the country — people full o* life, 
Everybody happy with his sweetheart or his wife ! 
Blue smoke from the cabins — up an' up it curls. 
While we go a-rollickin* an' ridin' with the gyrls ! 

Fall time in the country — hardest time to beat ! 
Follerin' the banjer an' the fiddle with your feet ; 
Never nuthin' like it — happy day an' night, 
Cider in the jimmyjohn an' fires blazin' bright ! 

(37) 



THE THOUGHT OF YOU. 

I care not whether the skies are blue, 
Or the clouds gloom black above me ; 

A sweet thought comes with the thought of you- 
You love me, dear, you love me ! 

When the world is cold and its friendships few, 

And toil is a vain endeavor, 
A sweet voice sings to my soul of you. 

And the world is sweet forever. 

And love, my love, with the bright eyes true 

And the red lips kind with kisses. 
There is no love like my love for you — 

No joy in the world like this is ! 

And whether the skies are dark or blue, 

With stars or storms above me. 
My life will shine with the thought of you— 

You love me, dear, you love me ! 

(38) 



WHEN JIM WAS DEAD. 

When Jim was dead — 

" It sarved him right," the neighbors said, 

An' 'bused him fer the life he'd led, 

An' him a-lyin' there at rest 

With not one rose laid on his breast ! 

Hard words, an' lots o' them, they said 

When Jim was dead. 

" Jest killed hisself," " Too mean to live : " 
They didn't have one word to give 
In comfort, while they crowded near 
An' looked on Jim a-lyin' there! 
" Ain't any use to talk/' they said : 
" He's better dead ! " 

But suddently the room growed still, 

While God's white sunshine seemed to fill 

(39) 



40 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

The dark place with a gleam o' life, 
An' over him she bent — Jim's wife ! 
An' with her lips laid clost to his — 
Jest like he knowed an' felt the kiss — 
She sobbed — a touchin' sight to see : 
" Oh ! Jim was always good to me ! " 

I tell you, when that come to light 

It kinder set the dead man right; 

An' round the weepin' woman they 

Throwed kindly arms o' love that day ; 

An' fallin' fast as hers, they shed 

The tend'rest tears — when Jim was dead. 



A SONG FOR HER. 

Sing for her, mocking bird, 

Your warm breast heaving in the sun-bright blos- 
soms ; 
Sing sweeter songs than we have ever heard, 
Until the wild heart of the world is stirred, 

And love wakes wondering in a thousand bosoms ! 

Sing for her, lark of dawn, 

When on your breast the lofty light is gleaming I 
Sing sweet, and bear the message on, and on- 
Higher and higher, till the world is gone, 

And at God's gates the melody is dreaming ! 

Sing for her, whip-poor-will, 

Your sweet voice ringing from the twilight covers, 

Where stars stream splendid over vale and hill ; 

Sing sweet, until your melting notes shall thrill 

And throng the wide, awakened world with lovers ! 

(41) 



42 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Sing, mocking bird ! Sing, lark ! 
Sing, whip-poor-will — your songs in concert ring- 
ing ; 

Sing in the dewy dawn — sing in the dark ; 

But while ye make your sweetest music, hark ! 
A sweeter song to her my soul is singing! 



WEARYIN' FOR YOU. 

Jest a-wearyin' fer you — 
All the time a-feelin' blue ; 
Wishin' fer you — wonderin' when 
You'll be comin* home again ; 
Restless — don't know what to do — 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you ! 

Keep a-mopin' day by day : 
Dull — in everybody's way ; 
Folks they smile an' pass along 
Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 
'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew — 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you. 

Room's so lonesome, with your chair 

Empty by the fireplace there, 

(43) 



44 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Jest can't stand the sight o' it ! 
Go outdoors an' roam a bit : 
But the woods is lonesome, too, 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you. 

Comes the wind with sounds that* jes' 
Like the rustlin* o' your dress ; 
An' the dew on flower an' tree 
Tinkles like your steps to me ! 
Violets, like your eyes so blue — 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you ! 

Mornin' comes, the birds awake 
(Them that sung so fer your sake !), 
But there's sadness in the notes 
That come thrillin' from their throats! 
Seem to feel your absence, too — 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you. 

Evenin' comes : I miss you more 
When the dark is in the door ; 
'Pears jest like you orter be 
There to open fer me ! 



WEAR YIN' FOR YOU. 



45 



Latch goes tinklin' — thrills me through, 
Sets me wearyin* fer you ! 

• ■ • • • • 

Jest a-wearyin' fer you — 
All the time a-feelin* blue ! 
Wishin' fer you — wonderin' when 
You'll be comin' home again ; 
Restless — don't know what to do — 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you ! 



A SONG IN GOOD TIME, 

Wishin* time, 

Fishin' time, 
Time to roll over 

In shadders 

Of medders, 
On carpets of clover! 

Swingin' time, 
Singin' time. 

Time to be sippin* 
The sunny- 
Made honey 

Of melon juice drippinM 

Merry time. 

Berry time. 

Time in good meter ; 

Dove time, 

An' love time. 

An' life growin' sweeter ! 
(46) 



A SONG OF WAITING. 

I have waited for your coming as the blossoms 
In the blighted buds of winter wait the spring ; 

As the robins with the red upon their bosoms 
Await the sweet and loving time to sing. 

I have listened for your footstep as the meadows 
Low listen for the dewfall in the night ; 

As the parched plains droop and dream toward 
the shadows — 
As the leaves in darkness listen for the light ! 

There is never any rose without the kisses 

Of the spring upon its leaves of red and white ; 

There is never any meadow if it misses 
The dewfall on its bosom in the night. 

There is never any robin's breast that, gleaming, 

Shall feel the thrill and flutter of a wing, 

(47) 



48 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

And set the world to loving and to dreaming, 
If there never comes a sunny time to sing. 

Let the dew the meadow's violets discover ! 

Let the robin sing his sweetest to the close ! 
There is never any love without a lover — 

You are coming, and the world blooms like a 
rose ! 



THE OLD PINE BOX. 

We didn't care in the long ago 

Fer easy chairs that was made fer show, 

With velvet cushions in red an' black 

An' springs that tilted a feller back 

'Fore he knowed it — like them in town — 

Till his heels went up an' his head went down ! 

But the seat we loved when we all was poor, 

Was the old pine box by the grocery store ! 

There it stood in the rain an' shine, 
Four foot long by the measurin' line ; 
Under the chiny-berry tree, 
Jest as cosy as she could be ! 
Fust headquarters fer infermation — 
Best old box in the whole creation ! 
Hacked, an' whittled, but feelin'/r;W, 
An' so blamed sociable all the time ! 

(49) 



so 



SONGS OF THE SOIL, 



There we plotted, an' there we'd plan; 
Read the news in the paper, an* 
Talked o' politics fur an* wide. 
An' got mixed up as we argyfied ! 
An' the old town fiddler sawed away 
At " Old Dan Tucker," an' '' Nelly Gray," 
An' " Suwannee River," an' fifty more, 
On the old pine box by the grocery store. 

The boys in the village knowed it well ; 

It was there they'd come when the meetin' bell 

Rung out fer church ; fer they knowed the gyrls 

Would pass that way in their crimps an' curls, 

Smilin' sweeter'n honeycomb 

When the boys would ax fer to see 'em home — 

Likewise fer the purtiest rose they wore 

Past the old pine box by the grocery store ! 

It heard good music, it got hard knocks, 
But still stood faithful — that old pine box ! 
Fer every feller in town that could. 
Cut out his name in the willin' wood, 



THE OLD PINE BOX. 5 1 

An* his sweetheart's, mixed with the sayin* true 
'Bout the rose bein' red an' the violet blue. 
Oh, there's boxes still, but there ain't no more 
Like the old pine box by the grocery store ! 

It ain't there now, as it was that day — 

Burnt, I reckon, or throwed away ; 

An* some o' the folks that the old box knowed 

Is fur along on the dusty road ; 

An' some's crost over the river wide 

An' foun' a home on the other side. 

Is they all fergot ? Don't they sigh no more 

Fer the old pine box by the grocery store ? 

It seems to me, if my race was run, 

An' I was there, where it's always sun. 

With a crown to wear an' a harp to hold — 

Loafin' roun' on the streets o' gold, 

While the saints was singin' an' sayin' grace 

I'd kinder look fer a shady place, 

An' dream furever an' everm.oit 

Of the old pine box by the grocery store! 



THE FIRST KISS. 

Sweetheart, 'twas but a while ago — it scarce seems 

yesterday, 
Though now my locks are white as snow and all 

your curls are gray — 
When, walking in the twilight haze, ere stars had 

smiled above, 
I whispered soft : " I love you,*' and you kissed 

me for that love! 

The first kiss, dear ! and then your hand — your 
little hand so sweet. 

And whiter than the white, white sand that twin- 
kled 'neath your feet — 

Laid tenderly within my own ! Have queens such 
lovely hands ? 

No wonder that the whip-poor-wills made sweet 

the autumn lands ! 
(53) 



THE FIRST KISS, 



55 



It seemed to me that my poor heart would beat to 

death and break, 
While all the world, sweetheart ! sweetheart ! 

seemed singing for your sake ; 
And every rose that barred the way in glad and 

dying grace. 
Forgot its faded summer day and, leaning, kissed 

your face ! 

I envied all the roses then, and all the rosy ways 
That blossomed for your sake are still my life's 

bright yesterdays ; 
But thinking of that first sweet kiss and that first 

clasp of hands. 
Life's whip-poor-wills sing sweeter now through all 

the winter lands ! 



TOSSUM AN' TATERS. 

Talk about ^<?(^^eatin*, we — 

Party jest made up o' three, 

An' a woman, sweet, or sweeter 

Than ^' Praise God " in old long meter — 

That's the sweetest kind o' song 

After sermonts six mile long — 

Had a layin' out that day, 

At the hotel crost the way ! 

An' I'll say in self-defense, 

Never did feel hungry sence ! 

Talk o' turkey, breast so white, 
Goose baked brown an' sarved up right ; 
Smokehouse ham an' likes o' that — 
Streak o' lean an' streak o' fat ; 
Juicy backbone, steak on toas', 
Mutton chops 'at some likes mos' — 

(54) 



'POSSUM AN' TATERS. 55 

Sakes ! they ain't a 'simmon blossom 
To a big, fat, Georgy 'possum ! 

Had one ? Well, you jest kin bet ! 
(Tears like I kin taste 'im yet !) 
Sarved up in old-fashion' style, 
'Nough to make a parson smile ! 
Thar he lay an' graced the feas', 
Sides jest gleamin' with the grease, 
Brown an' juicy, crisp an' crackin' — 
(Sally's lips was jest a-smackin' !) 
How they stared — them hotel waiters — 
At that 'possum, dressed in taters ! 

Doctor — fust he made a start, 

Carved that 'possum to the heart ; 

Sich a hurry fer the dressin' 

Mos' fergot to ask a blessin'. 

" Hoi' up, boys," he says : " The case 

Is a fittin' one fer grace ! " 

But the words come sorter jerkin' 

When he seen my mouth a-workin' ! 

(Comes to 'possum — 'tain't no cheatin' — 

I kin say grace while I'm eatin' !) 



56 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Doctor axed a blessin' prime : 
" Now, Miss Sally, it's your time! '* 
Sally went to pass her plate, 
But she foun* mine couldn't wait! 
Warn't no manners there that day — 
Struck her crock'ry jest half way ! 
Had the biggest kind o* laugh 
When my plate come smack in half ! 
But that didn't stop the game — 
'Possum got there jest the same 

Every appetite was willin' ; 

Taters sweet an' mighty fillin' ! 

Good old ** yams " they raised last year- 

Yallerer than Sally's hair ! 

(I could most eat alligators 

Cooked 'longside o' Georgy taters ! 

When they fix 'em up down South, 

Melt like honey in your mouth ! 

Give a man a right good load, 

Pay the last red cent he owed !) 

Well ! we eat that 'possum ! I 
Never seen Time gallop by 



'POSSUM AN' TATERS, 

As she did at that 'ere feed 
With the 'possum in the lead ! 
Brotherin, this here ain't no fable: 
When I drawed off from that table, 
Felt that I was goin' to bust 
Like the cotton baggin' trust ! 
But I didnt — as you see. 
No 'possum gits the best o' me/ 



57 



A BOUQUET. 

Red roses, wherefrom the dew drips, 

Staining the turf at my feet, 
You were never as red as her lips — 

Or as sweet ! 

Blue violets, tender and true — 

A mirror for sun-sprinkled skies, 
Do you think you were ever as blue 

As her eyes ? 

Rare lilies, in garments of white, 

Which winds with warm kisses beguile, 

Have you yet known a sunbeam as bright 
As her smile ? 

Kiss, lily, rose, violet — kiss ! 

Ere time doth your beauty destroy ; 

For her white hand hath touched you, and this 

Is your joy ! 

(s8) 



THE LIGHTNING AGE. 

What's the world a-comin' to, a feller'd like to 

know, 
When they're makin' ice to order an' manufactur- 

in' snow ? 
An' now, as if to vex us, another thing we 

hear : 
They're makin' rain in Texas without a word o' 

prayer ! 

They jest git in a open fiel', where all the folks 

kin view. 
An' fire off a cannon ball an' split a cloud in 

two ! 
An' then you hear a thunderin', and the rain 

comes big and bright ; 
But I jest can't help a-wonderin' if that kind o' 

rain is right ! 

(59) 



6o SONGS OF THE SOIL, 

Tears like the Lord ain't in it, when the string a 
fellow jerks 

Kin fire off a cannon 'at'li bust his water- 
works ; 

An' it's jest as true as preachin', an' I'm talkin' of 
it plain — 

No crop in this here country'!! ever grow from 
sich a rain ! 



The cities — they're gone out o' sight ; it 'pears 

jest like a dream, 
Fer when they has a cloudy night they runs the 

stars by steam ! 
And here's the lightnin' with a song proclaimin' 

man is boss, 
An' all the street cars skimmin' *long without a 

mule or hoss I 

An' here's that ringin' telephone, which never 

seems to tire. 
But takes your voice a-travellin' crest twenty mile 

o' wire ! 



THE LIGHTNING AGE, 6i 

They said it reached to t'other worT, an' I reckon 

it was so, 
Fer when I axed wher' Molly was, it hollered 

back: ''Hello!'' 

Then, there's that funny phonygraph — I never 

seen the like ! 
But there's no tellin' nowadays where lightnin's 

goin' to strike ; 
You jest put in a word or two, an' then take up 

the slack, 
An', like a woman when you talk, it keeps a-talkin* 

back ! 

Lord ! how the world is movin' on, beneath the 

sun an' moon ! 
I can't help thinkin' I was born a hunder'd year 

too soon ; 
But when I go — praise be to God ! — it won't be in 

the night, 
Fer my grave'll shine like glory in a bright 

electric light ! 



AT ANDERSONVILLE. 

When the weird, wondering wind is still, 
There, in the valleys at Andersonville, 
At that shivering hour — the grim half way 
Of the ghostly march of the dark to-day, 
There are sounds too mystical to repeat ; 
Eager voices, hurrying feet, 
Ribald laughter and jest — and then 
The prayers and pleadings of ^prisoned men. 

At dead of night, when the wind is still, 

There is life in the shadows at Andersonville. 

When the hills gloom black in the midnight shade 

There are signs of life in the old stockade : 

The phantom guards in the prison bounds 

Resume their sorrowful, silent rounds; 

While the glowworm's lantern gleams and waves 

Adown the aisles of a thousand graves ; 

(62) 



A T ANDERSONVILLE, d^ 

And then to the listening ear there comes 
The mystic roll of the muffled drums. 

The drama ends and the dreamer wakes : 

In the flowering fields and tangled brakes 

The birds are singing ; the liquid notes 

Rise to heaven from their thrilling throats ; 

The sunlight falls with a softened beam 

On the voiceless graves where the dead men 

dream ; 
While hill and valley and prison sod 
Rest in the smile and the peace of God. 

But at dead of night, when the wind is still, 
There is life in the shadows at Andersonville. 



A LAZY CHAP. 

I'm the laziest chap, I reckon, that a feller ever 
seen : 

Feel drowsy at the tinkle of a bell or tam- 
bourine; 

Warn't never made fer reachin' wher' the revenue 
is foun' — 

Fm what you'd call ^^ a lazy chap,'' jest built fer 
lyin' roun'. 

Contented ? Mighty right, I am ! when spring 

winds whistle sweet 
In the meadows where the daisies make a carpet 

fer your feet. 
Where the nestin' birds is chirpin' ; where the 

brook in witchin' play 

Goes laughin' on, jest pushin' all the lilies out his 

way, 

(64) 



A LAZY CHAP, 65 

You'll find me almost any time, a-huntin' shady 

trees, 
With the lull song o' the locust, and the drowsy 

drone o' bees 
Above me an' all roun' me : I'm a queer one, so 

they say, 
Fer I'd ruther hear the birds sing than to shoot 

'em, any day ! 

I wouldn't nigh be guv'ner, though it's kinder 
great to be, 

An' the Georgy legislatur' ain't a drawin' card fer 
me ! 
* An' as fer that old Congress — now, what's ifs big- 
gest seat 

To a feller on a river bank with lilies at his 
feet? 

Jest let 'em take the offices an' keep 'em in a 

whirl ! 
I'd ruther have a vi'let from the sweet hand of a 

girl 



66 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Than run the whole United States ! So let the 

country roll ! 
Fer a streak o' April sunshine is a-lightin' up my 

soul. 



I'm a-rollin* in the blossoms as they come a- 

tumblin' down, 
An' I'm glad as all creation there's a fence 'twixt 

me an' town ; 
I'm rakin' in the sunshine an' takin* of my 

ease, 
Whistlin* when I want to an* singin' when I 

please ! 

Jest laziness^ they tell me, an' I reckon that 

they're right ; 
But the world's so full o' beauty, an' the sun goes 

down at night ! 
But diff'runt folks hac diff'runt minds, an' drink a 

diff 'runt cup : 
When I'm talkin' to the lilies they're a-plowin' of 

'em up ! 



A LAZY CHAP. 67 

My field's a pasture fer the cows, an' though it 

never pays, 
It's a powerful source o' pleasure jest to see the 

creeturs graze ! 
The tinkle, tinkle o' the bells is sich a pleasin' 

soun' — 
But I'm a lazy chap, you know, jest built fer lyin' 

roun' ! 






FAITHFUL. 

It is something, sweet, when the world goes ill 
To know you are faithful and love me still; 
To see, when the sunshine has left the skies, 
The love-light shining in your dear eyes ; 
Beautiful eyes, more dear to me 
Than all the wealth of the world could be ! 

It is something, dearest, to feel you near 

When life with its sorrows seems hard to bear ; 

To feel when I falter the clasp divine 

Of your tender and trusting hand in mine; 

Beautiful hand, more dear to me 

Than the tenderest things of earth could be! 

Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong 
For God gives grief with his gift of song, 
And poverty, too ! But your love is more 
To me than riches and golden store ; 
Beautiful love, until death shall part 
It is mine, as you are — my own sweetheart ! 

(68) 



'^ GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING 
BROOKS." 

Jim Riley sent it to me, as fresh as fresh kin be, 
With paper print that's big enough fer any one to 

see ; 
But sometimes when I'm readin' it the print right 

misty looks — 
Jest like as if 'twas rainin' on " Green Fields an* 

Runnin' Brooks!" 

But soon the rain — it's over; jest lasts a little 

while, 
An' the sun streams on the clover an' makes the 

medders smile; 
An' then you smell the violets that peep from cozy 

nooks, 

An' hear your sweetheart singin' by " Green Fields 

an' Runnin' Brooks." 
(69) 



70 



SONGS OF THE SOIL, 



It's good o* Riley jest to think o' me, so fur away; 
To take a patch o' winter skies an' weave 'em into 

May ; 
To coax the birds to sing fer us, until it kinder 

looks 
As if the world was wadin' through " Green Fields 

an' Runnin' Brooks ! " 

But Jim's " the same old Riley," an' he sings from 

left to right, 
Till he sets the world to music an' jest tangles it 

in light ; 
An' so, it ain't no wonder that they put him down 

in books. 
Like the blessed one he sent me from "Green 

Fields an' Runnin' Brooks ! " 



A PORTRAIT IN A GRAVE. 

Bright in that spot where his brave heart had 
dreamed 
Itself to dust, the faded portrait lay — 
A woman's face that went with him that day 

Into the battle where the lightnings gleamed. 

Smiling and sweet and beautiful it seemed — 
That face, death-hidden in its frame of clay : 
A soldier of the blue, or of the gray — 

Over his dead heart still the dark hair streamed ! 

Dimly remembered is the conflict done — 
The clamor of the captains — the retreat. 
When Death cried " Halt ! " This memory 
above 

All others crowns the battle : Here was one 

Whose dying lips a woman's kiss made sweet — 

Whose grave is glorious with a woman's love ! 

(71) 



THROUGH THE WHEAT. 

When she came tripping through the wheat 
It seemed to bend to kiss her feet, 
And roses all the sod made sweet 
And birds sang cheery ; 

The honey bees were humming low — 
Gold specks on roses white as snow, 
Sweet roses — not so sweet, I know, 
As she was — Mary ! 

Her footstep seemed to wake a sound 
Of tinkling music from the ground 
That thrilled the winds that whistled round 
With sweet caresses ; 

And on her forehead, white and sleek, 
The rarest blossoms fell to wreak 
Their love, and played at hide-and-seek 
In her gold tresses. 
(72) 



THROUGH THE WHEAT 

Down fell the scythe upon the grass, 
And " Mary, Mary, will you pass ? ** 
** You're in my way," she said. " Alas ! 
1 must be going! " 

" Not till you pay the forfeit sweet 
Of coming this way through the wheat ; 
Ah ! Mary — lips were made to meet — 
A kiss you're owing ! '' 

Up went the dainty finger tips, 
To shield the rich and rosy lips, 
And all their red was in eclipse^ — 
My luck seemed missing. 

A moment only ! Then, as she 
Fled like a shaft of light from me, 
She cried : " I paid no forfeit — see ? 
You did the kissing ! " 



73 



THE TRUANT. 

Oh, school's took in, but it ain't took tnCy 

Fer I'm goin' 'crost the meadows jest a-skim- 
min'! 
When I ain't kite-flyin' wher' the wind blows free, 
I'm six yards furder 'an my folks kin see, 
Fishin', or strippin' off fer swimmin'! 

Oh, school's took in, but it ain't took me^ 

Fer the pond with the tadpoles is a-brimmin'! 
When I ain't in the top o' the chinyberry tree, 
I'm six yards furder 'an my folks kin see, 
Fishin', or strippin' off fer swimmin'! 

(74) 



A LITTLE BIT OF A BOY. 

There was never a smile in a weary while, 

And never a gleam of joy, 
Till his eyes of light made the whole world 
bright — 

A little bit of a boy ! 

He came one day when the world was May, 

And thrilling with life and joy ; 
And with all the roses he seemed to play — 

A little bit of a boy ! 

But he played his part with a human heart, 

And time can never destroy 
The memory sweet of the pattering feet 

Of that little bit of a boy ! 

We had wondered how he could play all day 
With never a dream of rest ; 

(75) 



76 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

But once he crept in the dark and slept 
Still ,on his mother's breast ! 

There was never a smile in a weary while, 

And never a gleam of joy ; 
But the world seems dim since we dreamed of 
him — 

A little bit of a boy ! 



JENNY AND I. 

Jenny and I were lovers, 

Many and many a year ; 
Poor as I be — but Jenny gave me 

The gold of her moonlight hair ; 
And I said, *^ Too ragged a lover 

To wed with the winsome witch ! ** 
But she bent her head, with her lips o' red, 

And kissed me, and made me rich ! 

Jenny and I were lovers, 

Yonder — in storm and fair; 
But her blue-bright eyes made the summer skies, 

And her smile the spring o' the year. 
Poor as a wayside beggar, 

With her tresses around me curled, 
Like veins o' gold in the rugged mold, 

I was richer than all the world ! 

(77) 



78 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Jenny and I were lovers, 

With only the sky above ; 
And we cared not for a painted cot, 

For heaven was over our love. 
The brooks were our mirrors — the water wine 

That sparkled by hill and glen ; 
Her face beamed pink where I stooped to drink, 

And the water was sweeter then ! 

Jenny and I were lovers, 

Many and many a year ; 
But the rose was wed to her lips o' red, 

And the moonlight envied her hair ; 
And the red rose creeps where her true heart 
sleeps, 

And the moonlight falleth drear 
Where Jenny and I were lovers — 

Many and many a year ! 



THE FAMILY RECORD. 

Thar's John — he is a doctor, an' William kinder 

laws, 
An' Reuben, he's a traveler in the missionary 

cause ; 
An' Moses runs a grocery store, an' Zekiel, he's 

the mayor ; 
An' Bob, he deals in real estate, where all the cash 

is clear ; 
An' Jim, he's tradin' horses, an' Ben, he runs the 

mill, 
An* Jeremiah deals in corn an' moonlight at the 

still ; 
An' Jackson — well, he ain't no 'count — jes' keeps 

'em on the stir 

To make a livin' fer him : Jack's 2l politicianer ! 

(79) 



SINGING OF YOU. 

Blossoms and blossoms and blossoms ! and birds 

singing of 'em, so sweet ! 
Pressing the down of their bosoms 'gainst the 

flowers that fall at your feet ! 
Clinging and swinging and flinging their souls to 

the heavens so blue — 
Oh, sweet to my soul is their singing, because they 

are singing of you ! 

Singing of you 

In the dawn and the dew — 

Singing of heaven and singing of you ! 

Blossoms and blossoms and blossoms ! sparkling 

with beautiful pearls, 

Twining themselves for your tresses, and falling 

and kissing your curls ! 
(80) 



SINGING OF YOU. 8i 

And all the birds swinging and flinging their souls 
to God's heavens of blue, 

And my soul dreaming soft in their singing, be- 
cause they are singing of you ! 

Singing of you 

In the dawn and the dew — 

Singing of heaven and singing of you! 



LITTLE ELAINE. 

Where have you gone, little Elaine, 

With the eyes like violets wet with rain — 

Silvery April rain, that throws 

Melting diamonds over the rose ? 

(Ah, never were eyes as bright as those !) 

You have left me alone ; but where have you 

flown ? 
God knows, my dear, God knows ! 

Where have you gone, little Elaine, 

With laughing lips of the crimson stain — 

Lips Aat smiled as the sunlight glows 

When morning breaks like a white, sweet rose 

Over the wearisome winter snows ? 

Shall I miss their song my whole life long ? 

God knows, my dear, God knows ! 

(82) 



LITTLE ELAIiYE, 83 

You have left me lonely, little Elaine : 
I call to you, but I call in vain ; 
I sing to you when the twilight throws 
Its dying light on my life's last rose, 
While the tide of Memory ebbs and flows. 
Is it God's own will I should miss you still ? 
God knows, my dear, God knows ! 



OUT OF THE RACE. 

Let *em fix their slates fer votin' — 
Let 'em light to git the place ; 

While they're jawin' I'm a co'tin' — 
Smackin' of a purty face ! 

I ain't with 'em — take my note in — 
Tell 'em that I'm out the race ! 

Let 'em tell their jokes so funny, 
(They ain't never understood !) 

While the bees is storin' honey 
In my hives of hollowed wood; 

While I'm makin' heaps of money 

Fishin' fer the neighborhood ! 
(84) 



THE PARTING OF POOR JACK. 

'A made a finer end, and went away, an it had been any 

Christom child ; . . . for after I saw him fumble with the 

sheets, and play with flowers, ... I knew there was but one 

way. ... So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet , . , 
and all was as cold as any stone. — Mrs. Quickly. 

I do forgive him for his raid 

On Gad's Hill— valiant knight ! 
For Mistress Quickly's scores unpaid — 

The sword he hacked for fight ; 
For all his frequent calls for sack — 

(The brawler bluff and old !) 
Because of that sad day — poor Jack ! — 

That day he was a-cold ! 

That day when, stealing to his den, 

(As history repeats) 

He " babbled of green fields," and then 

Pale, *^ fumbled with the sheets"; 
(85) 



S6 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Crept to his darkened lodge — alack ! 

Sir John, so stout and bold : 
** The king had killed his heart " — poor Jack !■ 

That day he was a-cold ! 

And Mistress Quickly I revere 

In that she stood his cause 
And faced them down that Jack was there 

Where ** Arthur's bosom " was ! 
Forgot were all his unpaid scores — 

Her grievous wrongs untold ; 
She had not turned him out o* doors 

That day he was a-cold ! 

Poor Jack ! he did not hearken then 

To "chimes o' midnight ** wild; 
But parted from his fellow-men 

"Like any Christom child." 
His cloudy memory bore him back 

To flowery days of old ; 
He " babbled of green fields " — poor Jack !— 

That day he was a-cold ! 



THE PARTING OF POOR JACK. 87 

So, I forgive him for his raid 

On Gad's Hill— with the rest ; 
For Shallow's thousand pounds unpaid, 

And every brawling jest; 
For Bardolph's nose, a-shine with sack, 

And Pistol's tirades bold ; 
He parted from us young — poor Jack ! — 

That day he was a-cold ! 



A DAY OFF. 

When a feller takes a day off — sets his soul to 

loafin, roun' 
Where the hills climb up to heaven an* the rushin* 

rivers soun', 
Tears like the world is newer, with a good deal 

more o' light, 
An' his eyes is seein' truer, an' his heart is beatin' 

right ! 

When a feller takes a day off, there is lots o' things 

to see ; 
I can hear the winds away off, jest a welcomin' o* 

me; 
An' the violets peep so purty ! an' the rose I use- 

ter miss 
Feels the red a-rushin' roun' it, an' comes climbin* 

f er a kiss ! 

(88) 



A DAY OFF, 89 

When a feller takes a day off — oh, he learns a lot 

o' things 
From the very doves a-fiyin', with the music in 

their vvings ; 
From the hills an' from the valleys, where the 

dreams an' dews is foun' — 
When a feller takes a day off, an' his soul is loafin' 

roun' ! 



AFTER. 

After the noonday heat, 
Cool shadows, soft descending from above, 

And all the bells of twilight chiming sweet, 
And love — thy love ! 

After the storm and strife, 
Over the calm seas, swift and sure — the dove, 

Bearing the olive through a rainbowed life, 
Sweet with thy love ! 

After the darkened light. 
Faith that finds wings, stars and great stars above. 
And earth's last memory sweet with thy " Good- 
night "— 

Thy lips, thy love ! 

(90) 



'TWAS FAR AWAY. 

'Twas far away where skies are fair, 

And sweet with song and light, 
When I had but my scythe, my dear, 

And you your needles bright. 

So far away ! And yet, to-day, 

For all the distance drear, 
My heart keeps chime with that dear time 

And dreams the old dreams there ! 

There, where love learned its sweetest words 

And built its brightest bowers; 
Where sang the rarest mocking birds 

And bloomed the fairest flowers ! 

And fields were golden-rich, and clear 
The streams flowed in the light — 

When I had but my scythe, my dear, 
And you your needles bright ! 

(oi) 



92 sojVGS of the soil. 

How soft and sweet across the wheat 
Your dear voice seemed to roam, 

When stars of love peeped pale above 
And I went dreaming home ! 

Life had no sweeter joy than this — 

To rest a little while 
There, where you met me with a kiss 

And blest me with a smile ! 

So far that sweet time seems to-day, 
Here 'neath these darkened skies; 

And yet, across the weary way 
You light me with your eyes! 

And I would give earth's gold to share 
Once more that day — that night, 

When I had but my scythe, my dear, 
And you your needles bright. 



WATERMELON SONG. 

Oh, the Georgia watermelon — it's a-growin' cool 

an' green, 
An'll soon be pullin' heavy at the stem; 
An* the knife — it needs a whettin', an' the blade is 

gittin' keen. 
Oh, the Georgia watermelon is a gem ! 

Melons cool an' green — 
Jest the best you ever seen ! 
See the sweet juice drippin' 
From them melons cool an' green! 

Oh, the Georgia watermelon — with the purtiest 

sort o' stripe ! 

It ain't a streak o' fat an' streak o' lean ; 

You thump her with your fingers, an' you hear her 

answer, ^' Ripe T' 

Oh, the Georgia watermelon cool an' green ! 

(93) 



94 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Melons cool an' green — 
Jest the best you ever seen ! 
See the sweet juice drippin' 
From them melons cool an' green ! 

When you pull a Georgia melon you must know 
what you are at, 
An' look out how your knife is goin' in; 
Put one half on this side o' you, the other half on 
that, 
An' then you git between 'em an' begin! 

Melons cool an' green — 
They're the best you ever seen ! 
How the juice comes drippin' 
From them melons cool an' green ! 

They're mighty, mighty fiUin' with their flamin' 
hearts o' red — 
Like the reddest o' the roses in the South; 
When cotton's down to nothin', take the place o' 
meat an' bread ; 
Make you think a hive o' honey's in your 
mouth ! 



WATERMELON SONG. 95 

Melons cool an* green — 
Best the country ever seen ! 
Oh, the meltin' sweetness 
Of them melons cool an' green ! 

But it's Vay ahead o' honey — as a slice or two 
will prove ; 
It's slicker, an' it's sweeter as it slips ! 
There ain't no *' nigger problem " when the melon's 
on the move — 
Make the white man an' the nigger smack his 
lips ! 

Melons cool an' green — 
Don't want any fence between ! 
But I'd outclimb all creation 
For them melons cool an' green ! 



THE DUEL. 

There, in the merciless morn's first glow, 
Grim, defiant, I faced my foe ; 

He who had wronged me with savage hate, 
Face to face on the field of fate. 

And I said, " He must die ; he has played his part; 
My sword shall cleave through his hateful heart ! " 

Then to the battle : with one true thrust 
He stood defenseless, his sword in dust. 

I marked the spot where his false heart lay, 
I lifted my glittering blade to slay ; 

When lo ! in my fury I seemed to feel 
A hand that clutched at the lifted steel : 

A hand that warded the blow I dealt ; 

And wild before me a woman knelt ! 

(96) 



THE DUEL. 97 



I could not strike him — my hated foe ; 
In wrath and mercy I bade him go. 

Fool ! forgetting the wrongs of years, 
To drown revenge in a woman's tears ! 



FOR SALLY. 

It's happy every mornin', 

Every evenin* I will be ; 
Fer I hoe the corn fer Sally, 

An' she bakes the bread fer me. 

It's a little farm I'm runnin', 
An' the soil is kinder rough ; 

But I'm workin' it fer Sally, 
An' the crop grows fast enough. 

All day long I hear her singin'. 

An' a lot of joy it brings ; 
Fer there ain't no song that's sweeter 

Than the song that Sally sings. 

Fer she sings because she's happy, 

An' I stop the plow an' hoe 
When I hear her, feelin' thankful 

That it's me has made her so ! 

(98) 



FOR SALLY. 

She keeps the pails all shinin', 
An* the bees a-workin' hard ; 

Calls the cows up fer the milkin*, 
Trains the roses in the yard ; 

An' she keeps furever singin' 

When the household troubles press; 
With a kiss fer little fingers 
Always tuggin' at her dress. 

Oh, it's happy every mornin', 

Every evenin' I will be ; 
Fer I hoe the corn fer Sally, 

An' she bakes the bread fer me ! 



99 



ONE SAD DAY. 

One sad day when the sun's gold crown 
Jeweled the desolate, dreamy west, 

I came with a burden, and laid it down 
Under the lilies and leaves to rest ; 

And, weeping, I left it and went my way 

With the Twilight whispering, " God knows 
best ! " 

One sad day — it was long ago, 

And thorny the paths my feet have pressed 
Since with tears and kisses I laid it low — 

Soul of my soul and life of my breast ! 
But kneeling now in the dark to pray. 

There comes with a song from the sunless west 
The same sweet voice that I heard that day — 

The Twilight whispering, " God knows best ! " 

(lOO) 



THE OLD POSTMASTER. 

Been runnin' of the office 

Fer fifteen year an' more ; 
Beat all the other candidates — 

Walked in an' locked the door ! 

He wears two pair o' spectacles, 

His sight is growin' dim ; 
He knows each man that ever 

Had a letter writ to him. 

He says: " Bill Brown, here's somethin'- 

Handwritin's kinder slant ; 
I guess it's from your daddy, 

Or a letter from your aunt ! *' 

He strikes a yaller envelope 

With printin' on one end ; 
He han's it to the groceryman : 

"About them goods, my friend ! '* 

(lOl) 



102 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Knows everybody's business, 
An' tells 'em of it, too ; 

" A letter from your sweetheart," 
Or " Another bill fer you ! " 

No politics kin hurt him, 
No matter who may win ; 

He sees the presidents go out 
While he keeps stayin' in. 

But the truth about the matter 
To all is mighty clear : 

He's been a-runnin' things so long, 
They've done fergot he's there ! 



A FAIR POLITICIAN. 

She has asked, ^* How will you vote?" 
And I make no vague condition 

In reply, because I note: 
Dora is a politician ! 

Would her red-rose lips condemn 

If I voted straight for them ? 

How the gold curls gleam above, 
How the blue eyes beam beneath ! 

There's no politics in love — 
Just a kiss, a rose, a wreath ! 

When her curls and eyes I note, 

Need she ask me how I'll vote ? 

But the question still she plies 
With the shyest, sweetest art, 

And the twinkle in her eyes 

Makes a light around my heart ! 

And I answer, bending o'er her, 

" By God's grace I'll vote for Dora ! '* 
(103) 



A COUNTRY PHILOSOPHER. 

The cold has killed the corn off an* blighted all 
the wheat ; 

The ice is on the peach blooms an' the apple blos- 
soms sweet, 

An' the country is in mournin' from the mountains 
to the sea, 

But the good Lord runs the weather, an* it ain't 
a-botherin' me ! 

The bees was out fer honey an' a-workin' fer their 

lives, 
But the blizzard stopped their buzzin', an' they're 

froze up in their hives ; 
An' there won't be any sweet'nin' fer the coffee or 

the tea. 

But the good Lord runs the weather, an' it ain't 

a-botherin' me ! 

(104) 



A COUNTRY PHILOSOPHER. 105 

The mockin' birds was singin' jest the sweetest 

kind o' notes, 
But now they're sittin* silent with a flannel roun' 

their throats ; 
An' there won't be any music 'til the summei' 

time to be, 
But the good Lord runs the weather, an' it ain*t 

a-botherin' me ! 

It don't make any difference what these changin' 
seasons bring ; 

If it's cold, the fire's a-blazin', an' I hear the chim- 
ney sing ; 

If it's hot, the trees is shady, with the breeze 
a-blowin' free, 

Fer the good Lord runs the weather, an' it ain't 
a-botherin' me ! 



THE SHIPS OF MELTON. 

How sail the ships to Melton, 

That lieth far and fair 
And dreamlike in the haven 

Where skies are calm and clear ? 
With blown sails leaning whitely, 

Sure winged *neath storm or star, 
They straightly steer — for still they hear 

The love-bells o'er the bar. 

How sail the ships to Melton, 

Within whose cots of white 
Love dreams of love and listens 

For footsteps in the night ? 
Like gulls, their glad way winging, 

They speed from lands afar ; 
For still they hear in music clear 

The love-bells o*er the bar. 

(io6) 



THE SHIPS OF MELTON-. 107 

How sail the ships to Melton ? 

Love-blown across the foam ; 
For still the sea sings ever 

The songs of love and home ; 
Nor spicy isles with splendid smiles 

Can win their sails afar, 
While softly swells that chime of bells — 

The love-bells o'er the bar. 

Oh, ships that sail to Melton, 

With captains glad and grand, 
The stars that light the ocean 

Are the stars that light the land ; 
But say for me, adrift at sea 

On lonely wrecks afar : 
My heart still hears, and dreaming nears 

The love-bells o'er the bar ! 



THEY'VE HUNG BILL JONES. 

They've hung Bill Jones to the sycamore tree, 
An' his wife an' his mother is a-weepin' ; 

An' his children's come from the house to see, 
An' the col' wind a-wailin' an' a-creepin* ! 

Oh, the coF wind's a-wailin' an' a-creepin', 
An' the wife an' the mother is a-weepin'; 

An' the children's there 

Fer to stand an' stare, 
An' the col' wind a-wailin' an' a-creepin' ! 

They've hung Bill Jones fer a crime of his. 
An' his wife an' his mother is a-dyin' ; 

An* his children's took where the orphants is — 
An' the col' wind a-creepin' an' a-sighin'! 

Oh, the col' wind's a-creepin' an' a-sighin', 
An' the wife an' the mother is a-dyin' ; 

An' his children's 'way 

Where the orphants stay — 
An* the col' wind a-creepin' an' a-sighin'! 

(io8) 



THE TOP FLOOR. 

Noisy sparrows build their nests 

Underneath the eaves : 
I can almost touch their breasts 

In the straw and leaves. 
From the housetops o'er the 'way 

Curious pigeons peer 
At me as I rhyme each day — 

Only tenant here. 

How they pout, and coo and kiss 
All the bright day long ! 

I can learn a trick from this : 
Love — and then a song ! 

Song for sixpence ! It is well ; 
For the music floats 

Freely as the notes that swell 

From the birds' clear throats. 

(109) 



no SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Here's a song, then : Life is sweet, 

Though it hurries by • 
Cheerily the world I greet, 

Up six stories high. 
Knowing little of its cares ; 

Closer to the skies ; 
Love — who will not climb the stairs— 

In the window flies. 



And I hold a man may love 

Nobly, truly, when 
He is lodged so far above 

All his fellow-men ! 
For he breathes a purer air : 

Days are never dim : 
Stars that tinge the atmosphere 

Brighter seem to him. 

Suns are warmer — or, at least, 
Shine with greater grace ; 

Nature is his soul's high priest, 
And his temple — space ! 



THE TOP FLOOR, m 

And the world's rude voices rise 

Murmuringly aloft ; 
For the distance to the skies 

Melts and makes them soft. 

In a garret life must be 

Far from busy throngs ; 
Little sparrows, chirp to me : 

Teach my soul your songs ! 
Teach me that God's world is sweet, 

Though I dwell above ; 
With the print of children's feet 

In the paths of love. 

Sing, and build your little nests 

Underneath the eaves ; 
Though the heart that loves you rests 

With life's fallen leaves. 
Sing ! for life is kind and sweet 

As it hurries by : 
Cheerily the world we greet, 

Up six stories high ! 



DON'T YOU? 

When you see the hills away off 
Lookin' green an' gold an' blue, 

It is time to take a day off 
With the daisies an' the dew. 

Don't you wish 

Fer a fish 
Where the trees is goin' ^^ swish *' ? 
When you hear the birds a-singin'^ 
An' the cattle bells a-ringin', 
An' the honeysuckles swingin' — 

Don't you wish ? 

When March is headin' May off, 

With a rumple in his curls, 

It is time to take a day off, 

Huntin' violets with the girls. 
(112) 



DON'T YOU? 113 

Don't you pine 

Fer the shine 
Of the meadows fair and fine? 
Fer the lilied rills a-flowin', 
Fer the woods with blossoms blowin', 
Fer the world with beauty glowin' — 

Don*t you pine ? 



MY LADY. 

In my poor cot there dwelleth not 

A lady lulled in laces 
And satins fine ; none such is mine — 

But very sweet her face is : 
For God, when first her heart did beat, 
Smiled on her face and made it sweet. 

She robeth not her dear self in 
Rare gowns of queenly splendor ; 

She hath won all that she would win — 
A heart's love, loyal, tender ; 

She is not rich ; and yet I know 

One smile of love can make her so ! 

No jewels glitter on her hands, 

And ne'er to love betrayed her ; 

Of all the ladies of the lands. 

She's just as God hath made her ; 
(114) 



MY LADY. 

For when he made the morning he 
Made one rose for himself and me ! 

And close beside my heart I wear 
That flower that fadeth never ; 

And if I pray, 'tis but this prayer : 
To keep that rose forever. 

But lo ! my lady comes, and she 

Brings roses of her love to me! 



"S 



THE RATTLESNAKE. 

I'm the first of the season ; my venomous head 
Is poised for the conflict : Beware how you 

tread ! 
My fangs, they are fatal — my warning expressed: 
You just touch the button, and I'll do the rest ! 

Yet, far from these liars of men I repose, 

And coiled in contentment I lazily doze, 

Till their footsteps arouse me from visions un- 

blest ; 
Then, they touch the button, and I do the rest ! 

What liars they are — all these creatures called 
men ; 

They multiply each of my rattles by ten ; 

And hence, with my black tongue my wrath is ex- 
pressed. 

And they touch the button, and I do the rest ! 

iii6) 



A LITTLE WAY. 

A little way to walk with you, my own — 

Only a little way, 
Then one of us must weep and walk alone 

Until God's day. 

A little way ! It is so sweet to live 

Together, that I know 
Life would not have one withere(^ rose to give 

If one of us should go. 

And if these lips should ever learii lo smile, 
With thy heart far from mins^ 

'Twould be for joy that in a little wfciU 
They would be kissed by thine ! 

("7) 



N 



DIDNT THINK OF LOSIN' HIM. 

Always wuz abusin' him — 
Rough an* rougher usin' him, 
Love an* all refusin' him, 

Though his tears 'ud fall ; 
Didn't think o' losin' him — 

Not at all ! 

He, poor feller, he'd jest sigh, 

With a waterin' o' the eye — 

Say : '' It's all my fault," and try 

T' stave 'em off a while ! 
" Some day I'll lay down arC die — 

Then they'll smile r 

An' he did. God's sometimes heap 
Kinder to His poor, lost sheep 
Than the ones 'at has their keep ; 
So, one lonesome day, 

("8) 



DIDN'T THINK OF LOSIN' HIM. 

He jest told him, '' Go to sleep,*' 
In His own kind way. 

Then the poor, sad, weary eyes 
Smiled their thanks to God's own skies, 
With a kind o' sweet surprise — 

And the heart growed still. 
Said one of 'em : '* Thar he lies; 

It's God's will ! " 



Always wuz abusin' him — 
Rough an' rougher usin' him, 
Love an' all refusin' him. 

Though his tears 'ud fall ; 
Didn't think o' losin' him — 

Not at all ! 



119 



THE HOME KEEPER. 

About her household moving glad each day, 

With heartful care of all the simplest things ; 

And near her side a child voice coos and sings — 
She hears the noise of pattering feet at play, 
And pauses oft to kiss the lips that say 

** Mother I " and joys to feel the hand that 
clings 

Close to her heart, as to her apron strings — 
Nor would she chide that little hand away ! 

Then, when the day hath drifted to the dark, 

And brightening stars loom through the twilight 

late. 

She feels the heart within her bosom stir 

At every leaf that strikes the lattice. . . . Hark ! 

Her life's reward — a footstep at the gate. 

And love that comes to claim the love of her ! 

(120) 



JUNE DREAMS. 

There*s something in the hazy, lazy, daisy atmos- 
phere 

That makes a fellow mellow all the saul he has to 
spare 

In the scented, sweet, contented subtle season 
when the tunes, 

Of a million birds make music for a million, tril- 
lion Junes ! 

You are dreaming in the gleaming — you are blind- 
ed by the glow 

Of the white light and the bright light, where the 
splendid rivers flow ; 

Or in dells where bells of twilight ring their re- 
quiem of rest. 

You are drifting with the rose leaves to the 
Night's voluptuous breast ! 

(I2l) 



122 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 

Life is languor, with no anger of a storm to strike 
and slay 

The peace that makes the perfect and splendid- 
vista'd day ; 

Life is glory, and the story, told in Love's melo- 
dious tunes 

/(lakes the world move to the music of a million, 
trillion Junes ! 



A SONG OF LIFE. 

He that clingeth unto life 
For the fond lips of a wife 
Hath, I know, great joy to live: 
Earth hath nothing more to give — 
Of all gifts the heavens confer, 
Sweeter than the love of her ! 

He that is to life beguiled 

By the clinging of a child 

Hath, I know, great store of grace, 

And with Love a dwelling place; 

For all heaven hath dreamed and smiled 

In the sweet face of a child. 

He that unto life is drawn 
When the dark hath drowned the dawn ; 
When no wife's lips sigh or sing, 
When no child's arms clasp and cling, 

(ia3> 



124 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Still hath hope — for in the night 
Cometh dreams and gleams of light ! 

So, though love be lost to thee 
Life, though lonely, sweet may be ; 
Canst thou take, when sore opprest, 
Others' burdens to thy breast. 
Love unto the loveless give ? 
Thou shalt bless thyself and live ! 



A SHARP POLITICIAN. 

Jim Jones — he run fer Congress; they beat him 

out o' that — 
Likewise a mule, a pair o' boots, an' bran new 

beaver hat ; 
But when he saw that he was whipped — did Jones 

feel sad an' sick ? 
Not him ! He bought another mule an* run fer 

Sheriff quick ! 

Then they put up another man, they said was 

shore to win, 
An' shore enough Jim Jones went out while that 

same chap went in ! 
But did they find him sulkin' when he knowed 

they'd whipped him clear ? 
Not him! He bought another mule an' run like 

bricks fer mayor ! 



126 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

An* then he got elected, an' when he held the fort 
He summoned them as whipped him out to come 

into his court ; 
An* he fined 'em each ten dollars — it was all jest 

like a dream — 
An' when they paid an' went away Jim Jones was 

rich as cream ! 



BLACKBERRIES. 

Blackberries — do you know 

Where to find them ? 
Oh, their briers prick you so — 

Never mind them ! 

Get your cap, you queen in curls! 

(Don't be shy, dear !) 
For the sun will kiss the girls. 

(So will I, dear!) 

'Tis a quaint cap that you take — 

Nay, a bonnet ; 
But the sunbeams — they will make 

Ribbons on it ! 

Let me tie the strings. (I'll hold 

My caresses.) 

Now it's hidden half the gold 

Of your tresses ! 
(127) 



128 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

But we go where drops of dew 

(Looking-glasses) 
Paint the rosy face of you 

On the grasses. 

O'er the bars I climb, and so — 

In the clover, 
(I have willing arms, you know !) 

Take you over. 

Now the birds sing in the blooms 
Where theyVe found us. 

Where a million sweet perfumes 
Swoon around us : 

** Berries, berries, black and sweet, 

Love, forsake them ! 
They were made for birds to eat — 

Do not take them ! 

" In the hedges, by the rills — 

In shy covers, 
They are sweetening our bills 

For our lovers." 



BLA CK BERRIES, 



129 



But the berries black we pull 

(Play your part, love!) 
Till your bonnet's brimming full — 

Like my heart, love ! 

Now you've spilled them ! Let them go, 

While love sips, dear, 
Sweeter juices than they know 

From your lips, dear. 

Give the berries to the birds. 

Singing near them; 
Love would say some little words: 

Will you hear them ? 

Suns may set, or suns may shine, 

Birds sing never : 
Love is thine and love is mine, 

Sweet, forever ! 



STILL IN THE RING. 

TO C. J. B. 

You say IVe stopped from singing and some sor- 
row youVe expressed, 

That my muse is gittin' lazy since I left the sweet 
Southwest ; 

Well, maybe so an' not so : we're better when we're 
brief : 

But the rose of song's a-bloomin', though the frost 
is on the leaf. 

I'll tell you why I'm quiet — why I don't chirp as 

before : 
'Tain't because my whistle's broken an' needs 

fixin' at the store ; 
But I'm somethin' of a stranger to these towerin' 

hills of snow, 

An' my songs — they're all behind me, where the 

Southland roses grow. 
(130) 



STILL IN THE RING, 



131 



I'm always thinkin', thinkin* of the times that used 

to be, 
Where the springs and golden autumns flushed the 

friendly fields of Lee ; 
An* as I look back yonder, on them fur-off plains 

an' skies, 
The sun may be a-shinin', but — ifs rainiti routC my 

eyes ! 

Well ! here's a greetin* to you : I'm still inside the 

ring, 
An' a-lovin' an' a-list'nin' to the songs the others 

sing ; 
But my harp, jest fer the present, is reposin' on 

the shelf, 
An' my heart makes all the music, but it keeps it 

to itself ! 



A DAY IN THE WOODS. 

A mocking bird sweet singing on a spray 
Of dewy blossoms, lightly shaken down ; 
A river running by the rushes brown, 

Its green banks drifting dreamily away, 

And the sun centered in the splendid day ! 
Far off, faint echoes of a noisy town, 
And hills that wear a blue and golden crown, 

And fields of corn, and meadows sweet with May! 

And then — the bells of twilight — restful, sweet ! 

A lulling murmur from the languid rills — 

A gray star glimmering in the blended blue ; 

And my heart heaving with a happier beat, 

Answering the calling of the whip-poor-wills 

That time my footsteps home to love and 

you ! 

(132) 



JIM TUCK'S OLD WOMAN. 

Jim Tuck's old woman's a sight, I say, 

Whenever she takes a turn : 
She don't stand none o' your foolish play, 

An' none o* your tricks in her'n. 
I found that out 'fore election day, 

'Thout any remarks from him ; 
When she said in a quiet an' meanin' way : 

** I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ? " 

Now, you know, Jim Tuck an' myself wuz dead 

Sot 'gin one ernuther — cross ez 
Two sticks, an' couldn't be drove ner led. 

An' never could set hosses ; 
So, when she made that remark I said : 

" His chances with me is slim." 

" Oh, no ! " she cried — an' she looked cross-eyed ; 

" I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ! " 

(133) 



134 



SONGS OF THE SOIL, 



That riled me, an' so — 'fore I seemed to know, 

I blazed rite out an' cussed 
Jim outen the county — high an' low — 

But brotherin', she never fussed ; 
Jest moved a step when I turned to go — 

That woman wuz fur from slim — 
An' locked the door an' remarked once more : 

" I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ! " 

An' sayin' this, with a sudden sweep 

She riz with the kitchen broom ; 
An' fallin' foul o' me, in a heap, 

She walloped me roun' the room ! 
She fit an' fout, an' she jumped erbout 

Ten foot — an' she wuzn't slim — 
An' still she'd shout as she laid me out : 

" I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ! " 

'Twas gittin' lively fer both of us, 

An' so, I begin debatin' 
That mebbe Jim wuzn't as big a cuss 

As the feller that I'd been hatin' ; 



JIM TUCK'S OLD WOMAN. 135 

An' so — but all o* you fellers know 

The story 'bout her an' him : 
He's sheriff now, an' — I can't tell how, 

But I reckon I voted fer Jim ! 



THE SHOWER. 

Fall, gentle rain, in blessed, brimming drops ; 

Cool with thy kiss the city's burning streets ; 

Moisten the meadows where the hot sun beats, 
And fall refreshing on the thirsty crops ; 
The warm wind for thy cordial greeting stops ; 

The panting flock a merry welcome bleats ; 

The famished fields unfold a thousand sweets ; 
The grass bends dimpling on the mountain tops ! 

Fall, gentle rain, on the rejoicing land ! 

The incense rises from the dusty plain ; 
The valley's violets, for a moment blurred. 
Twinkle for joy ! and where the live oaks stand, 

There rings a glad thanksgiving for the rain 

In the wild music of the mocking bird ! 

(136) 



APRIL. 

Fellers, this is April — know it by the breeze 
Caperin' roun' an' rumplin' the ringlets o* the 

trees ; 
Know it by my wishin' fer the woods an' streams ; 
All day long I'm fishin' — ketch 'em in my dreams ! 

Fellers, this is April — sunny, soft an' sweet ; 
April from her bright eyes to the roses roun' her 

feet! 
Like a country maiden, rosy-faced she trips, 
Sunshine on her yellow curls an' honey on her 

lips ! 

Fellers, this is April : git out in the air ! 

Let her run her fingers fer a minute through your 

hair ! 

Hear her birds a-singin', while the world so blest 

To her lips is clingin', an' dreamin' on her breast ! 

(137) 



138 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Fellers, this is April, with a lap o* pearls ; 

Seems to me you'd know it, holdin' han's with all 

the gyrls, 
An' huntin' wild flowers with 'em ! Oh, May is 

sweet to see. 
But April with her violets is joy enough fer me ! 



UNCLE JIM. 

Uncle Jim — he only saw 

The ocean once, and then 
They put him in a bathing suit, 

Just like the other men ; 
But when, a-tiptoe on the beach, 

He saw the billows rise. 
And, breaking o'er him, strive to reach 

To mansions in the skies. 
He jerked that bathing suit of red 

(Twas well the sun had set !) 

And cried, as fast the bathers fled : 

** This blamed thing's ringin' wet ! " 
(139) 



A LITTLE BOY FOR SALE. 

Here is a little boy — 

A little boy for sale ! 
With all of his dimpled cheeks of joy 

And the voice of a nightingale ; — 
A little boy for sale, 

A boy that is fair and fat ; 
If you missed the joy of that little boy, 

Would you know where your heart was at? 

Here is a little boy — 

A little boy for sale ! 
Will you buy him now ? Here's a curly brow 

And the voice of a nightingale ! 
A little boy for sale — 

Ho ! buyers, from east and west ! 

It shall not fail that this nightingale 

Shall sing near the mother nest ! 
(140) 



A LITTLE BOY FOR SALE. 141 

Some birds there be that fly 

From the land o'er the ocean's foam, 
But the voice of this bird is always heard 

Where the sweet birds sing at home ! 
At home where the light is bright — 

At home where the love is best ! 
Oh, the nightingale ! and the boy for sale! 

They are bought for the mother's breast ! 



A FISHERMAN IN TOWN. 

I jest set here a-dreamin' — 

A-dreamin' every day, 
Of the sunshine that's a-gleamin' 

On the rivers — fur away ; 

An' I kinder fall to wishin' 
I was where the waters swish ; 

Fer if the Lord made fishin', 
Why — a feller orter fish ! 

While I'm studyin', or a-writin', 
In the dusty, rusty town, 

I kin feel the fish a-bitin' — 
See the cork a-goin' down ! 

An' the sunshine seems a-tanglin' 

Of the shadows, cool an* sweet ; 

With the honeysuckles danglin', 

An' the lilies at my feet ! 
(14a) 



A FISHERMAN IN TOWN. 

So, I nod, an* fall to wishin' 
I was where the waters swish ; 

Far if the Lord made fishin', 
Why — a feller orter fish ! 



143 



THE OLD SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS. 

Oh, the old school exhibitions ! will they ever come 

again, 
With the good, old-fashioned speaking from the 

girls and boys so plain ? 
Will we ever hear old " Iser,'* with its rapid roll 

and sweep, 
And " Pilot, 'tis a fearful night ; there's danger on 

the deep " ? 

Sweet Mary doesn't raise her lambs like Mary did 

of old; 
Their fleece is not ** as white as snow " ; they're 

wandering from the fold ; 
The boy upon *' the burning deck " is not one half 

as fine — 

He was not " born at Bingen, at Bingen on the 

Rhine ! " 

(144) 



THE OLD SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS. 145 

The girls don't speak in calico, the boys in cotton 

jeans; 
They've changed the old-time dresses 'long with 

the old-time scenes ; 
They smile and speak in crooked Greek; in broad. 

cloth and in lace ; 
And you can't half see the speaker for the collar 

'round the face ! 

Oh, the old school exhibitions ! They are gone for- 
ever more ! 

The old schoolhouse is deserted, and the grass has 
choked the door ; 

And the wind sweeps 'round the gables, with a low 
and mournful whine 

For the old boys "born at Bingen — at Bingen oq 
the Rhine ! " 



IN ABSENCE. 

Your mocking birds are mute 

Amid the peach blooms and the pines that sigh- 
ing 
Delay the winds that pass them like a lute 

Whose sweetest notes are dying. 

Your lilies bend and weep, 

Because in vain they lift their lips to kiss 
you; 
The morning-glories 'round your casement creep, 

And, looking in, they miss you. 

Your haunted brook glides o'er 

The sparkling stones where wild flowers lean to 

win it, 

And moans its way, because it feels no more 

Your face reflected in it. 

(146) 



IN ABSENCE, 147 

Birds, winds, brooks, flowers — they keep 

Sad vigils where the lonely light is streaming ; 

And I — across the darkness and the deep 
My soul drifts to you, dreaming ! 



IN THE FIELDS. 

Oh, maiden under the skies so blue, 

Of the eyes and tresses brown, 
I'd rather be walking the fields with you 

Than going my way to the town ! 
Is it far to your dwelling ? But here's a rose ; 
Perhaps you slipped from its heart — who knows ? 

It is like your face ; it is like the smile 

Of your lips so red and sweet. 
Do the roses bloom for a little while 

And their hearts then cease to beat ? 
How fair were the roses my youth-time knew ! 
Were I a rose I would bloom for you. 

Do you roam through the summers sweet and long 

Over these fields so fair, 
And blend your voice with the harvest song 

That thrills through the scented air ? 

(148) 



IN THE FIELDS. 149 

When you bind the wheat with a golden skein 
Are the tares not mixed with the ripened grain ? 

Sowing and reaping my life has known, 

And now with the gathered sheaves 
There are fruitless weeds that have heedless 
grown, 
And thorns 'neath the rose's leaves. 
Sowing and reaping, the harvest seems 
Less than my labor and less than my dreams. 
• ••••• 

Oh, maiden under the skies so blue, 

Of the eyes and tresses brown, 
I'd rather be walking the fields with you 

Than going my way to the town ! 
Is it far to your dwelling ? But here's a rose ; 
Perhaps you slipped from its heart — who knows? 



GITTIN' HOME. 

Gittin* back to home ag'in, after all the strife, 
The rattlin* an* the roarin' o' the busy city life; 
Gittin' back to home ag'in — heart a-beatin' high, 
Greener grows the meadows an' bluer is the sky ! 

World seems all dressed up f er it — neat as any pin ! 

Car wheels keep a-singin' : " Gittin' home ag'in ! " 

Don't it please a feller when he's travelin' through 

the Ian', 

That home comes out to meet him an' takes him 

by the han' ! 

(150) 



CHATTAHOOCHEE. 

Sweet sings the Chattahoochee on its way toward 
the sea — 

The curling Chattahoochee, 
The whirling Chattahoochee — 
And the mocking birds make answer to its music 
wild and free; 

The blue skies bend above it, 
The green hills lean and love it, 
And the Chattahoochee singeth of the summer and 
the sea ! 

Sweet sings the Chattahoochee with radiant, rip- 
pled tides — 

The dreamy Chattahoochee, 
The gleamy Chattahoochee — 
The Alabama hilltops from the Georgian it di- 
vides ; 



152 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

But floats this song above them : 
" I lave them, and I love them ; 
The green fields are my lovers, and the green hills 
are my brides ! *' 

Sweet sings the Chattahoochee to the east and to 
the west — 
The olden Chattahoochee, 
The golden Chattahoochee ; 
But a secret in its bosom makes it love the sunset 
best; 

For its soul seems ever sighing 
For a lost love unreplying, 
When night steals from the mountains and is fold- 
ed to its breast. 



Sweet sings the Chattahoochee of the passion of 
the past — 

The grieving Chattahoochee, 
Dream-weaving Chattahoochee, 
And whatever be its secret still it holds — enfolds 
it fast ; 



CHATTAHOOCHEE, 153 

But when glooms the night above you, 
Still that song : " I love you — love you ! 
And the sweetest rose that blossoms near my 
bosom is the last ! '* 



THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS. 

It was in the town o* Waycross, not many weeks 
ago. 

They had a big revival there, as like enough you 
know; 

An' though many was converted an' fer pardon 
made to call, 

Yet the Sunday mornin' love feast was the hap- 
piest time o' all ! 

'Twas a great experience meetin', an' it done me 
good to hear 

The brotherin an' the sisterin that talked re- 
ligion there ; 

You didn't have to ax 'em, ner coax 'em with a 
song ; 

Them people had religion, an' they told it right 

along ! 

(154) 



THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS, 155 

Thar was one — a hard old sinner — 'pears like I 

knowed his name, 
But I reckon I've fergot it — who to the altar 

came ; 
An' he took the leader by the han', with beamin* 

face an' bright, 
An' said : " I'm comin' home, dear fren's ; I'm 

comin' home to-night ! " 

Then a woman rose an' axed to be remembered in 

their prayers : 
" My husband's comin' home," said she, a-sheddin' 

thankful tears ; 
" I want you all to pray fer him ; he's lived in 

sin's control. 
But I think the love o' Jesus is a-breakin' on his 

soul ! " 

Any shoutin' ? Well, I reckon so ! One brother 

give a shout : 
Said he had so much religion he was 'bliged to let 

it out ! 



156 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

An' the preacher jined the chorus, sayin' : "Broth- 

erin, let 'er roll ! 
A man can't keep from shoutin' with religion in 

his soul ! " 

I tell you, 'twas a happy time; I wished 'twould 

never end : 
Each sinner in the church that day had Jesus fer a 

friend ; 
But a good old deacon said to 'em, while tears 

stood in his eye : 
" There's a better time 'an this, dear fren's, 

a-comin' by an' by ! " 

I hope some day those brotherin'll meet with one 

accord 
In the higher, holier love feast, whose leader is 

the Lord ; 
An' when this here life is over, with its sorrow an* 

its sighs, 
May the little church at Waycross jine the big 

church in the skies ! 



A JUNE PASTORAL. 

Fleecy clouds above you roll — 

All the world^s a tune 
Thrillin' through a feller's soul, 

Dreamin' here with June. 

Butterflies with golden wings 

Brush you — soft as silk, 
While the poplar-shaded springs 

Cool the buttermilk ! 

In the old fence corner — whew ! 

Melons — mind your tread ! — 
Where the sun is streamin* through 

To their hearts o' red ! 

June she is — an' let her be ! 

June in fields an' towns ; 

Let her sweet lips stifle me, 

While her honey drowns ! 
(157) 



THE MOCKING BIRD. 

He didn't know much music 

When first he come along ; 
An' all the birds went wonderin' 

Why he didn't sing a song. 

They primped their feathers in the sun, 
An' sung their sweetest notes ; 

An' music jest come on the run 
From all their purty throats ! 

But still that bird was silent 

In summer time an' fall ; 
He jest set still an' listened, 

An' he wouldn't sing at all ! 

But one night when them songsters 

Was tired out an' still, 
An' the wind sighed down the valley 

An* went creepin' up the hill ; 

(158) 



THE MOCKING BIRD. 

When the stars was all a-tremble 
In the dreamin* fields o' blue, 

An' the daisy in the darkness 
Felt the fallin' o' the dew ; 

There come a sound o' melody 

No mortal ever heard, 
An' all the birds seemed singin' 

From the throat o' one sweet bird! 

Then the other birds went Mayin* 

In a land too fur to call ; 
Fer there warn't no use in stayin* 

When one bird could sing fer all! 



159 



GOOD-BY. 

There's a kind o' chilly feelin' in the blowin' o* 

the breeze, 
An' a sense o' sadness stealin' through the tresses 

o' the trees ; 
An' it's not the sad September that's slowly 

drawin' nigh, 
But jest that I remember I'm here to say " Good- 

by!" 

** Good-by," the wind is wailin* ; " good-by," the 

trees complain, 
An' bend low down to whisper, with green leaves 

white with rain ; 
" Good-by," the roses murmur, an' the bendin* 

lilies sigh. 
As if they all felt sorry that I'm come to say 

'' Good-by." 

(i6o) 



GOOD'S Y, i6i 

I reckon all have said it, some time or other — 

soft 
An' easy like — with eyes low down, that couldn't 

look aloft 
Fer the tears that trembled in 'em, fer the lips 

that choked the sigh 
When it kind o' took holt o' the heart, an' made it 

beat '' Good-by ! " 

I didn't think 'twas hard to say, but standin' here 

alone, 
With the pleasant past behin' me, an' the future all 

unknown, 
A-gloomin' yonder in the dark, I can't keep back 

the sigh. 
An' I'm weepin' like a woman as I tell you all 

'' Good-by ! " 

The work I've done is with you ; maybe some 
things went wrong, - 

Like a note that jars the music in the sweet flow 
of a song ! 



l62 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

But, brethren, when you think o' me, I only ask 

you would 
Say as the Master said o' one : " He's done jest 

what he could ! '' 

An' when you sit together in the time that's goin' 

to be, 
By your bright an' beamin' firesides in this 

pleasant land o' Lee, 
Let the sweet past come before you, an' with 

somethin' like a sigh. 
Jest say : " We ain't fergot him since the day he 

said ' Good-by ! ' " 



A GEORGIA BARBECUE. 

Faint wreaths of smoke are dreaming skyward in 
rings of blue ; 

A subtle, savory steaming is softly filtered through 

The sheltering trees that whisper the secret every- 
where, 

While hill and valley revel in the dewed, delicious 
air ! 

And then, that crackle of the twigs above the 

smoky pits ; 
Where brown and palatable pigs make Wisdom 

lose its wits ! 
And then — and then — the cry to arms ! Knives, 

forks, flash to and fro. 

And hungry hundreds praise the Lord, from whom 

all blessings flow ! 

(163) 



THE LAST INN. 

This is the inn that I 

Have dreamed of all my days; 
I enter — close the door — good-by ! 

And the world may go its ways. 
The soft, cool shadows round me creep; 
I lay me down to rest — to sleep. 

There is no reckoning here ; 

Not any noise or strife ; 
Nor shall one murmur to be where 

King Death is host to Life. 
Still, curtained rest for ye that come, 
But sightless eyes and lips made dumb. 

Cold ice at head and feet. 

But flowers of colors grand 

To make the air above you sweet 

And paint the roof of sand. 
(164) 



THE LAST INN. 165 

What more ? And when the keen winds blow, 
Sweet dreams in daisies 'neath the snow. 

Good-night, friends, and farewell ! 

Our lives must parted be ; 
Grieve not that I with Death must dwell, 

For Death is kind to me. 
Tired, I lay me down to rest, 
A child lulled on a mother's breast. 



THE EASTER BONNET. 

Don't make 'em like they use to — done killed with 

too much style — 
Fixed up with birds an' ribbons, till you know 'em 

half a mile : 
They call 'em " Easter bonnets," in the big store 

windows hung — 
Ain't nuthin' like the bonnets that they wore when 

we was young ! 

How much completer, sweeter, and neater was the 

old 
Time bonnet, shadin' rosy cheeks an' ringlets 

black an' gold ! 
Plain, with no fixins on it — with a string o' red an' 

blue ; 
But a kiss beneath that bonnet was as sweet as 

honey-dew ! 

(i66) 



THE EASTER BONNET 167 

Don't make *em like they use to — done killed with 
too much style ; 

An' yet — the girls that wear 'em give a feller sich 
a smile, 

He kinder smooths it over — fergives 'em, so high- 
strung — 

But they're nuthin' like the bonnets that they wore 
when we was young ! 



NOVEMBER NIGHTS. 

November nights — November nights ! 
With all their rich and rare delights ; 
The blazing fire whose sparkling flames 
Gleam with a lovelier light than Fame's ! 
Oh, heartful cheer ! Oh, peaceful sights, 
Walled in by cool November nights ! 

November nights — -the stories told ; 
The lambs all gathered in the fold ; 
The flickering lights and shadows shed 
O'er little ones tucked up in bed ! 
The mother's kiss — divine delights 
That crown the sweet November nights ! 

November nights ! the fiddler's feet 

Keep time to music wild and sweet ; 

And every echoing rafter rings 

Where Love each rosy partner swings ! 

Oh, rich are all the rare delights 

That crown the cool November nights ! 

(168) 



A TRAGEDY. 

That's him there, on his coffin, in the cart, 
An' that's his wife a-creepin' 
In the crowd — 'way off an' weepin' ; 

Oh, the law is jest a-breakin' of her heart ! 

That's him there, on the scaffol'. See ! he speaks ; 
There's a woman there, a-holdin' 
Of the hands they'll soon be foldin', 

An* the tears is jest a-rainin' down her cheeks. 

That's him there in the coffin lyin' low, 

An' the woman — first to love him 

An' the last to bend above him, 

Is his mother — but I reckon you would know! 

(169) 



SOME THOUGHTS OF LEE. 

How's all the boys down there in Lee — Joe John- 
son an' Doc Brown? 

When I think o' them, it 'pears to me the rain's 
a-comin' down; 

Or, it may be that the distance makes a haze aroun' 
my eyes — 

Fer the sunshine's kind o' blindin' when it comes 
from them old skies ! 

How's all the boys down there in Lee ? I guess 

they're livin' still, 
Fer I seem to hear 'em singin' down the road to 

Wells' mill, 
Where the water made sich music in the sweet an' 

old-time years ; 
(I think I hear it drippin' — but I guess it's jest my 

tears !) 

(170) 



SOME THOUGHTS OF LEE. 171 

How's all the boys down there in Lee ? I guess 

they've 'bout fergot 
A feller what is gone away an' kinder changed his lot ; 
But yet he ain't fergot 'em — wherever he may be 
He'll always hear, in music clear, the far-off bells 

o' Lee ! 

The bells that used to ring fer us at early mornin' 

light ; 
The bells that used to sing fer us — soft in our 

dreams at night ; 
The dear old bells ! What organ swells one half 

as sweet to me 
As jest their " tinkle, tinkle " in the meadowy lands 

o' Lee ! 

But this isn't what I mean to say : How's all the 

boys down there ? 
I guess the frosts o' life has shed the silver on 

their hair — 
Or, it may be that the distance makes a haze aroun' 

my eyes, 
Fer the sunshine's kind o* blindin' when it comes 

from them old skies ! 



THE CHAP IN THE BRANCH. 

You may talk about your pleasures o' the summer 

time, an' sich, 
An' jest pile your money measures till the people 

say you're rich ; 
Take a trip off to the seashore, from your swel- 

terin' city ranch, 
But — the chap that has the most fun is a-wadin' in 

the branch ! 

You may kinder slip the weather by a trip acrost 

the sea, 
An' feel the salty blowin' o' the breezes brisk an' 

free, 
An' pay some other feller fer conductin' o' the 

ranch. 

But — the chap that keeps the coolest is a-wadin' 

in the branch ! 

(172) 



THE CHAP IN THE BRANCH. 



173 



Jest take a look an* see him : his feet is bare an' 

flat ; 
Suspenders made o' cotton, an' him wearin' one at 

that! 
His hat brim torn an' hangin' ! — jest keep your 

city ranch — 
The pictur' that's the brighest is the pictur' in the 

branch ! 



THE SONGS OF THE WIND. 

How sings the wind in the splendid day 
* When the world is wild with the wealth of May ? 

" The world is thrilling with light and love — 
There was never a cloud in the heavens above : 
Never a mateless and moaning dove ! 
Never a grave for a rose to hide, 
And never a rose that died ! " 

How sings the wind in the hopeless night 
When the lone, long winters are cold and white ? 

" There are rainbows back of the storms to be — 
Back of the storms and their mystery ; 
But oh, for the ships that are lost at sea ! 
And oh, for the love in the lonesome lands. 
Far from the clasp of the drowning hands ! " 

(»74) 



THE SONGS OF THE WIND, 



175 



So the wind singeth : Its God decrees 
The wind should sing such songs as these — 
Should laugh in the sunlight's silver waves 
And toss the green on the world's sad graves. 
But why, in the night, should it sing to me 
Of the ships — the ships that are lost at sea ? 



THE RAINBOW. 

Flash, storm, your lightnings from their sheath, 

While bolt on bolt is hurled ; 

Of your great wrath God makes a wreath 

Of glory round the world ! 

(176) 



THE WORD HE DIDNT SAY. 

When we went to camp meetin' I had a word to 

say, 
But I kept a-puUin' roses — like they all was in the 

way ! 
An* I did say : '^ Here's a red 'un ! an' this vi'let — 

ain't it blue ?" 
But what I wanted most to say was — " ain't as 

sweet as you ! " 

I recollect, 'twas rainin' ; — no, 'pears like the sun 

was out, 
Fer I seen your curls a-shinin' on your neck an' 

round about ; 
An' the moon was — no she wasn't ! — don't think 

the moon had riz ! 
(When a feller's got a sweetheart, don't she turn 

that head o' his ?) 

(177) 



178 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

When we went to camp meetin' — here goes ! I had 

a word 
To say to you, and that was jest the one that 

wasn't heard ! 
But since you ain*t here listenin', with them bright 

curls 'round your brow, 
I'll say, I loved you ! an' — an' — an' I'm lovin* of 

you now / 



THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

That was the song ! We heard it years ago — 
Hark ! from the wiry brambles and the deep, 
Dark woods, and where the valley's violets sleep, 

The curt, cool notes, melodiously flow ! 

That was the song ! In many a nest I know 
The birds are cuddled, and the clear skies weep 
Upon the morning-glories ; shadows creep 

Over the hollows where the hushed streams flow. 

That song ! that song ! and still your hand in mine, 

And still your true heart beating near my own ! 

And still the vines — the place — the garden 

still ! 

Dear heart, I love you ! Let your lips incline — 

The lips whose roses bloom for me alone 

As blooms the same song of the whip-poor-will ! 

(179) 



HUNT HIM DOWN. 

Ho! good people of every town, 
Here is a brother : hunt him down ! 
Roar at his heels like a raging flood — 
Slake your thirst with his heart's red blood ; 
For he was tempted — he sinned, he fell 
From heights of heaven to depths of hell ! 
Fugitive — fleeing the saintly town, 
Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 

Ho ! good people of every town, 

Sage and sinner and knave and clown, 

Swell the ranks with their storm and strife 

In the maddening race for a human life ! 

Pause not ye for his gasp and groan — 

Aim the arrow and hurl the stone ! 

Past the village and through the town 

Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 

(180) 



HUNT HIM DOWN, i8l 

Care not ye for the grief he feels ; 

Let the bloodhounds howl at his burning heels; 

Let the cold, sharp stones of the cruel street 

Pierce the wounds in his bleeding feet ! 

Hurl your hisses and block his way, 

Till he stands at last like a beast at bay ! 

Search the village and sack the town — 

Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 

Ho ! good people of every town, 
Let not mercy your justice drown ; 
'*Tis human game — 'tis a soul in woe, 
Whose white Redeemer died long ago ! 
Scourge him — slay him ! *tis little loss : 
A sinner clings to the crimson cross, 
Asking not for your shining crown, 
Dead in the darkness — hunted down ! 



CLOSE TO SPRINGTIME. 

Gittin' close to springtime — know it by the way 
The sun is streamin', gleamin' in the middle o' the 

day; 
Know it by the river that is lazyin* along, 
An' the mocking birds a-primpin' o' their feathers 

fer a song ! 

Gittin' close to springtime — know it by the signs, 
Hear it in the whisper o' the maples an' the pines; 
Feel it in the blowin' o' the breezes, singin' sweet ; 
See it in the daisies jest a-dreamin' at my feet ! 

Gittin' close to springtime; hope she'll come to 

stay ; 

Got a million kisses fer the red lips o' the May ! 

Wearyin' to meet her — list'nin' all the time 

Fer the tinkle o' her footsteps — her roses an' her 

rhyme ! 

(182) 



A SONG OF MYSTERIES. 

Who shall say what snowflakes light 
Falling on the lambs at night, 
Clothed them in their coats of white? 
Who shall say what veins of sun 
Through the rose's petals run, 
Till they crimson^ one by one ? 
This, O Heart, is all our knowing: 
Lambs are clad and flowers are blowing. 

When the wild birds are a-wing 
In the blue and bloom of spring. 
Who shall say what makes them sing ? 
Who shall tell this heart of mine 
Why in thunder and in shine 
Still the mossed-oak lures the vine? 
We but know the wild bird singeth 
And the lured vine clingeth, clingeth. 



1 84 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Who shall say why rosiest dawn 
Gleameth, streameth, dreameth on, 
To the breast of Darkness drawn ? 
And why thou, by earth caressed, 
Still hath sought me — lovea me best, 
Crept like sunlight to my breast ? 
Day and Dark may love and sever. 
But thou lovest me forever ! 



MARY, AFTER CALVARY. 

In the night when they scourged Him and crowned 
Him 

With thorns that were sharp as their spears, 
They struck my white arms from around Him 
And fast fell my tears. 

And weeping and following slowly — 
They mocking my love and my loss, 

Knew not that my lips leaning lowly 
Kissed His steps to the cross ! 

They knew not my down-streaming tresses, 
With myrrh and with spikenard made sweet, 

Had covered with golden caresses 
His beautiful feet ! 

So, weeping, I followed my Master 

Till the cross was laid wearily down, 

(185) 



1 86 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

And the night in the heavens gloomed faster 
On Calvary's crown. 

And there — as He rested Him, weary, 
My love knew its sweetest reward — 

For His lips seemed to speak to me : " Mary ! " 
My name from my Lord ! 

No crown of sharp thorns did I weave Him 
To crimson His forehead of white ; 

The last in the darkness to leave Him, 
The first in the light ! 

For there, at the gates of His prison, 

Faith freed from doubt's darkened control, 

I knew that my Master was risen 
And joy filled my soul ! 

He liveth ! No more am I weeping, 
But still, where God's angels are fair, 

My love to His footstool is creeping 
And He smiles on me there ! 



WEARY THE WAITING. 

There's an end to all toiling some day — sweet 
day, 
But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 
There's a harbor somewhere in a peaceful bay 
Where the sails will be furled and the ship will 

stay 
At anchor — somewhere in the far-away — 
But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 

There's an end to the troubles of souls opprest, 

But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 
Some time in the future when God thinks best 
He'll lay us tenderly down to rest, 
And roses '11 bloom from the thorns in the breast — 

But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 

There's an end to the world with its stormy frown. 

But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 

(187) 



1 88 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

There's a light somewhere that no dark can 

drown, 
And where life's sad burdens are all laid down, 
A crown — thank God ! — for each cross — a crown! 
But it's weary the waiting, weary \ 



JONES'S COTTON PLANTER. 

He ain't of no account at all, jest give up ever'- 

thing 
Fer what he calls " inventin'/' been a-foolin' 'long 

sence spring 
With a queer kind o' contraption which has turned 

that head o' his ; 
Calls it "Jones's Cotton Planter," but the Lord 

knows what it is ! 

He took it to the city, showed it to the board o' 

trade, 
An' they thought it was amazin' an' said: '* Jones, 

your fortun's made ! " 
I know they was a-foolin' him — got lots o' imper- 

dence ! 
But he come home highfalutin', an' he hain't 

knowed nuthin' sence. 

(i8g) 



190 



SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



He's built himself a blacksmith shop, an' there h$ 

works away, 
With the pesky bellows roarin' like a cyclone night 

an' day ; 
Ain't reg'lar at his meals no more, man of a fam'ly, 

too ; 
I wish that cotton planter was in — Halifax, 

I do ! 

It strikes me they've got things enough without 

his makin' more. 
Unless he fixed up somethin' fer the grass that's at 

his door ; 
But the cotton planter's got him, an' the children's 

worked to death, 
Fer he keeps 'em at the bellows till they're almost 

out o' breath. 

Sich a blowin', sich a hammerin', sich a sawin* — 

never stops ; 
Can't git him interested in the weather or the 

crops. 



JONES'S COTTON PLANTER. 191 

"I'm a-gittin' there!" he'll tell you; *' she'll be 

ready by the fall ; 
And Jones's cotton planter'll take the shine from 

off 'em all ! " 

He's done fur. No use talkin* ; he's a ruint man 

as sure 
As Betsy, there, is sittin' with her knittin' at the 

door; 
Alas ! fer all the children — they'll be down to skin 

an' bones, 
An' Jones's cotton planter'll be the epitaph o' 

Jones ! 



HAPPY LAN'. 

Three niggers with a banjer — it*s fun to hear *em 
sing— 

A rattlin' off the music on a knotted fiddle- 
string 

Acrost a old cigar box — they're happy on the 
way, 

An* they make '^ The Suwanee River '* sing a song 
to '' Nellie Gray ! " 

" With a plink, plank, plunk, 
An' it's happy Ian' 
Whar you doan give a nickel 
Fer a po' white man ! " 

Three niggers with a banjer — they're makin' music 

fine ; 

Jes' done a-choppin' cotton, where the white man 

had 'em gwine ! 

(192) 



HAPPY LAN\ 



193 



Doan care how corn's a-sellin' — be watermillions 
soon, 

An' that's why they're a-yellin' to the old planta- 
tion tune — 

** With a plink, plank, plunk, 
An' it's happy Ian' 
Whar you doan give a nickel 
Fer a po' white man ! " 

Three niggers with a banjer — talk 'bout the " Sun- 
ny South," 

They sing like watermillions was a-meltin' in their 
mouth ; 

Jest happy as three blackbirds six miles from any 
trap : 

** Oh, when yo' foot strike Zion yo' hat rim go 
ker-flap ! " 

" With a plink, plank, plunk, 
An' it's happy Ian' 
Whar you doan give a nickel 
Fer a po' white man ! " 



LET MISS LINDY PASS. 

Lizard on de fence rail, 

Blacksnake in de grass ; 
Rabbit in de brier-patch — 

Oh, let Miss Lindy pass ! 

Let Miss Lindy pass — 
Her foot won*t ben' de grass; 
Rabbit, lizard, blacksnake, 
Oh, let Miss Lindy pass. 

Squirrel in de co^nfieF, 

Eat yo' br'akfas* fas' ; 
Set up straight an' watch de gate 

An* let Miss Lindy pass. 

Let Miss Lindy pass, 

Lak' de sunshine on de grass ! 

Set up straight an' watch de gate 

An' let Miss Lindy pass. 
(194) 



LET MISS LINDY PASS. 195 

White rose in de gyarden walk, 

Wid a dewdrap lookin'-glass, 
Bresh dat dew fum off' en you 

An' let Miss Lindy pass. 

Let Miss Lindy pass, 

An' she'll pin you on at las' ; 

De goodness knows she's de sweetes' rose — 

So let Miss Lindy pass ! 



A CHEAT! 

O April, you your skies may arch, 

But you're a cheat — no doubt ; 

You stole the blustering winds o' March 

To blow your curls about ! 
(196) 



TO A LITTLE FELLOW. 

Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
Long time since I have looked on you ! 
But I know your eyes are the same bright blue- 
April eyes, where the sun slips through : 
Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 

Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 

Seem to feel, as I sit an' view 

Your picture, there on the mantel shelf, 

The arms, the charms of your own dear self ! 

For you kissed me oft, and you loved me true: 

Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 

Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 

Same little fellow that once I knew ? 

Never a change for all the years — 

Same sweet laughter and same bright tears ? 

(197) 



198 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 

Oh, for a word from the lips of you ! 
Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 

Ho ! little fellow — far away ! 
Dream, some time, of the words I say, 
When the dark drifts over your eyes of blue, 
And the angels look through the lace at you ! 
Dream that I love you ; but love me, too ! 
Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 



A SONG. 

Sweetheart, there is no splendor 
In all God's splendid skies 

Bright as the lovelight tender 
That dwells in thy dear eyes ! 

Sweetheart, there are no blisses 
Like those thy lips distil ; 

Of all the world's sweet kisses 
Thy kiss is sweetest still ! 

Sweetheart, no white dove flying 
Had e'er as soft a breast 

As this sweet hand that's lying 
Clasped in my own — at rest ! 

Sweetheart, there is no glory 

That clusters 'round my life 
Bright as this bright, sweet story 

^* My sweetheart and my wife ! " 

(199) 



MY GIFTS. 

Give not to me life's splendors — they would blind 
The eyes that now have light to see the way ; 
Only a little sunlight for my day, 

And for my night the shadows soft and kind ; 

And for my wealth the quiet of the mind, 
Gentle and sweet ; and lips that sing or say 
In kindness, and are answered when they pray ; 

And for my glory duty, love-defined. 

And give to me the love of her whose kiss 
Is recompense for toil ; whose smiles await 

My coming, brightening with expected bliss 
In some sweet spot where twilight lingereth 
late; 

And yet one other blessing crowning this, 

In little footsteps pattering to the gate : 

(200) 



A LITTLE BOOK. 

[Charles Warren Stoddard's South Sea Idyls.] 

A little book with here and there a leaf 

Turned at some tender passage ; how it seems 
To speak to me — to fill my soul with dreams 

Sweet as first love, and beautiful though brief ! 

Here was her glory ; on this page her grief — 
For tears have stained it ; here the sunlight 

streams, 
And there the stars withheld from her their 
beams 

And sorrow sought her white soul like a thief ! 

And here her name, and as I breathe the sweet, 
Soft syllables, a presence in the room 

Sheds a rare radiance ; but I may not look : 

The yellowed leaves are fluttering at my feet ; 

The light is gone, and I — lost in the gloom, 

Weep like a woman o'er this little book. 

(201) 



SAINT MICHAEL'S BELLS. 

I wonder if the bells ring now, as in the days of 

old, 
From the solemn star-crowned tower with the 

glittering cross of gold ; 
The tower that overlooks the sea whose shining 

bosom swells 
To the ringing and the singing of sweet Saint 

Michael's bells ? 

I have heard them in the morning when the mists 

gloomed cold and gray 
O'er the distant walls of Sumter looking seaward 

from the bay, 
And at twilight I have listened to the musical 

farewells 

That came flying, sighing, dying from sweet Saint 

Michael's bells. 

(202) 



SAIXT MICHAELS BELLS, 203 

Great joy it was to hear them, for they sang sweet 

songs to me 
Where the sheltered ships rocked gently in the 

haven — safe from sea, 
And the captains and the sailors heard no more 

the ocean's knells, 
But thanked God for home and loved ones and 

sweet Saint Michael's bells. 



They seemed to waft a welcome across the ocean's 

foam 
To all the lost and lonely : " Come home — come 

home — come home ! 
Come home, where skies are brighter — where love 

still yearning dwells ! " 
So sang the bells in music — the sweet Saint 

Michael's bells ! 

They are ringing now as ever. But I know that 
not for me 

Shall the bells of sweet Saint Michael's ring wel- 
come o'er the sea ; 



204 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

I have knelt within their shadow, where my heart 

still dreams and dwells, 
But I'll hear no more the music of sweet Saint 

Michael's bells. 

Oh, ring, sweet bells, forever, an echo in my 

breast 
Soft as a mother's voice that lulls a loved one into 

rest ! 
Ring welcome to the hearts at home — to me your 

sad farewells 
When I sleep the last sleep, dreaming of sweet 

Saint Michael's bells ! 



SONG. 

Love is folly, Love is hate- 
Let us dwell with Love : 

He's a churl of low estate — 
He's a God above ! 

Piping robin — moaning dove — 

Loved because his name is Love . 

If he hath a garden spot — 

Dwelling in the light ; 
If he hath a savage cot, 

Covered by the night ; — 

We must love in praise or blame, 

Since sweet Love's his name — his name ! 
(205) 



MAID O' THE MIST. 

Are you watching the ships sailing southward^ 

O mystical Maid o' the Mist ? 
Do you wave your white hand 
When they're nearing the land — 

Are the tips of your white fingers kissed 
To the captains and sailors who shout o*ei the 

foam 
For joy of the lights in the harbor at home ? 



Are you watching the ships sailing southward, 

O beautiful Maid o' the Mist ? 
When the waves on the bars 
Make their moan to the stars, 

Do you keep with the night winds a tryst ? 

The watch fires are dead on the desolate strand 

And darkness hath hidden thy beckoning hand. 

(206) 



MAID a THE MIST. 207 

You are watching the ships sailing southward, 

O Maid o' the Mist ! but I know 
That the pitiful waves 
Never tell of the graves 

Fathoms and fathoms below ; 
And the winds that blow inland o'er sea and o'er 

sound 
In mercy have stifled the cries of the drowned ! 



A SONG OF SHIPS. 

The sky made a whip o' the winds and lashed the 

sea into foam, 
And the keen blowing gales tore the flags and the 

sails of the ships that were plunging home ; 
Of the ships that were tossing home on the black 

and billowy deep, 
But who shall reach to the wrecks, the wrecks, 

where the ships and their captains sleep ? 

Oh, wrecks by the black seas tossed, 
In the desolate ocean nights ! 

Lost, lost in the darkness ! Lost 
In sight o' the harbor lights! 

The sky made a veil o' the clouds and a scourge o' 

the lightning red, 

And the blasts bowed the masts of the ships that 

fared where love and the sea gulls led; 
(208) 



A SONG OF SHIPS, 209 

Of the ships that were faring home with love for 

the waiting breast, 
But where is the love that can reach to the wrecks 

where the ships and their captains rest ? 

Oh, ships of our love, wave-tossed, 
In the fathomless ocean nights ! 

Lost, lost in the blackness ! Lost 
In sight o* the harbor lights ! 

There was once a ship of my soul that tossed on a 

stormy sea. 
And this was my prayer when the nights gloomed 

drear : '' Send my souFs ship safe to me ! 
Send my soul's ship safely home from billows and 

blackened skies ! *' 
But where is the soul that can reach to the depths, 

the depths where my soul's ship lies ? 

Oh, ship of my soul, storm-tossed 
In the far and the fearful nights ! 

Lost, lost, in the blackness ! Lost 
In sight o' the harbor lights ! 



HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 

God's roses are sweet and His lilies are fair, 
As they bend 'neath the dews from above ; 
They are splendid and fair — but they can not com- 
pare 
With the beautiful hands of my love. 
No jewels adorn them — no glittering bands — 
They are just as God made them, these sweet, 
sweet hands ! y 

And not for earth's gems, or its bright diadems, 
Or the pearls from the depths of the sea, 

Or the queens of the lands with their beautiful 
hands 
Should these dear hands be taken from me. 

What exquisite blisses await their commands ! 

They were made for my kisses, these dear, sweet 

hands. 

(210) 



HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS, 21 1 

Ay, made for my kisses ! And when, some day, 

My life shall be robbed of its trust. 
And the lips that are colder shall kiss them away 

And hide them in daisies and dust ; 
I will kneel in the dark where the angel stands 
And my kiss shall be last on these dear, sweet 
hands. 



TO THE NEW YEAR. 

One song for thee, New Year, 

One universal prayer : 

Teach us — all other teaching far above — 

To hide dark Hate beneath the wings of Love; 

To slay all hatred, strife, 

And live the larger life ! 

To bind the wounds that bleed : 

To lift the fallen, lead the blind 
As only Love can lead — 

To live for all mankind ! 

Teach us, New Year, to be 

Free men among the free, 

Our only master Duty ; with no God 

Save one — our Maker ; monarchs of the sod( 

Teach us, with all its might, 

Its darkness and its light ; 

(212) 



TO THE NEW YEAR. 213 

Its heart-beats tremulous, 

Its grief, its gloom, 

Its beauty and its bloom — 
God made the world for us ! 



THE MASTER'S COMING. 

In a desolate Night and lonely, afar in a desolate 

land, 
I waited the Master's coming — the touch of His 

healing hand. 
The gates of His house were guarded and sealed 

with a seal of stone, 
Yet still for His steps I waited and wept in the 

dark alone. 

And I said : " When the guards are dreaming I will 

steal to His couch of rest ; 
He will think of my weary vigils and welcome me 

to His breast.'* 
But lo ! when the seal was broken, the couch where 

my Master lay 

Held only His shining raiment — they had taken 

my Lord away ! 

(214) 



THE MASTER'S COMING. 



215 



Then my soul in its grief and anguish lay down in 
the dark to die 

Under a hopeless heaven, under a sunless sky ; 

But my dreams were all of the Master — dear as 
my soul was dear, 

And waking, I saw the glory of His beautiful Pres- 
ence there ! 

And He said, as I fell and worshiped : ** Arise, 

and the Master see ; 
Behold the thorns that have crowned Him — the 

wounds that were made for thee ! " 

I wait for the Master's coming now as in days 

gone by, 
Under a hopeful heaven, under a cloudless sky ; 
And still when the guards are dreaming I steal tc> 

His couch of rest ; 
His smile through the darkness lightens, and wel 

comes me to His breast \ 



A SONG OF LIBERTY. 

Across the land from strand to strand 
Loud ring the bugle notes, 

And Freedom's smile from isle to isle, 
Like Freedom's banner floats. 

The velvet vales sing '^ Liberty ! " 
To answering skies serene ; 

The mountains, sloping to the sea, 
Wave all their flags of green. 

The rivers, dashing to the deep, 

Still echo loud and long, 
And all their waves in glory leap 

To one immortal song. 

One song of Liberty and Life 

That was and is to be, 

Till tyrant flags are trampled rags 

And all the world is free ! 
(216) 



A SONG OF LIBERTY. 217 

One song — the nations hail the notes 

From sounding sea to sea, 
And answer from their thrilling throats 

That song of Liberty ! 

They answer and an echo comes 
From chained and troubled isles, 

And roars like ocean's thunder-drums 
Where glad Columbia smiles. 

Where, crowned and great, she sits in state 

Beneath her flag of stars. 
Her heroes' blood the sacred flood 

That crimsoned all its bars ! 

Hail to our Country ! strong she stands^ 
Nor fears the war drum's beat ; 

The sword of Freedom in her hands — , 
The tyrant at her feet ! 

(12) 
THE END. 



